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THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



BY 



^ 



GEORGE HyBOKER. 



TU MIHl SOLUS ERAS. 




PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

LONDON : IG SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 

18 82. 



\ 



Copyright, 1882, by George II. Bokeu. 



Beside the spreading Nile of old, . 

They buried with their worthy dead 
A scrolled papyrus, to unfold 

His virtues and the life he led. 

And all the gods, in council grave, 
Asked nothing but this written scroll, 

As evidence, to doom or save 
The bearer's arbitrated soul. 

Grand thought! enlarging on the view; 

This Avinnowed record of the pen 
Made truth a right, and upward drew 

The moral sympathies of men. 



Man leaned on man for judgment just, 
The grave became truth's inner shrine, 

And every heap of mortal dust 
Was reverenced as a thing divine. 

So I within thy hallowed tomb 

Enclose this book, most loved of men ! 

There, till the dreadful day of doom, 
May it repose, but open then ! 

Book of the Dead, if any see 

False judgments in thy earnest page, 

Be all thy gathered sins on me, — 

Man's vengeance and God's juster rage ! 



I. 



'Tis not my purpose to explain 

The truths here dimly set in view; 

These hieroglyphics of the brain 
Are meant for others to undo. 

I hang my painted pictures high, 
I paint them ill, or paint them well ; 

If they say nothing to the eye. 

Then I have nothing more to tell. , 

Thus much, howe'er, to all be known : 
The man, of m^n most loved by me, 

Eaised up a ruin till it shone 
Before men's eyes a prodigy. 

And all men praised the wondrous sj)ot, 
And marvelled daily more and more ; 

The only fault was he forgot 

To drive the vermin from the door. 

7 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

The knaves who found safe shelter there, 
Who owed him more than they could pay, 

Were eaten up with envious care 
Because their chief was more than they. 

But, cowards shrewd, they hid their thought, 
And fetched and carried at his nod. 

Until his soul w^as upward caught 
By the dread, sudden hand of God. 

In life they played their cunning parts. 

They lauded everything he did; 
In death they — bold, heroic hearts — 

Stabbed at him through the coffin-lid! 

They searched his mansion through and through, 
With wolfish hate in every glance; 

Of all they saw they nothing knew, 
And charged him with their ignorance. 

Here was some work left incomplete, 

There something showed the touch of time; 

They could not fill his empty seat, — 
They made his very death a crime. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 9 

Then slander followed, hints of guilt, 
The murmur grew a general roar; 

And, in the very house he built. 

They drove his children from the door. 

Now partly in my scorn of wrong. 

But chiefly for the wronged one's love, 

I lift my voice, and through my song 
I hear an answer from above. 

If you who judge, charge any leaf 

With thoughts too wild or words too plain. 

Then say, the man is mad with grief; 

These villains struck through heart and brain. 



10 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



II. 



This cross between a curse and psalm 

I utter with a holy scorn, 
I lift my pierced and bleeding palm, 

I point you where the nail has torn. 

I drag to light a private grief, 

I brandish it before your eyes ; 
Not that the action gives relief, 

Nor asks to hear another's sighs. 

I checked awhile the brimming tide, 
I held it backward from the world; 

It burst at last, and far and wide 

Flames ran, and burning stones were hurled. 

This grief of mine my soul had stirred 

To song, had never poet sung; 
There are some wrongs that will be heard, 

That find or make themselves a ton<j:ue. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. H 

I move by some mysterious law, 

The law that makes the sino-er siiifr, 

Though the sharp draught these miscreants draw 
Be, to their class, a wholesome thing. 

The tears that mingle with the bane 

Are holy, and in mercy given ; 
Let no man wipe away their stain ; 

I wish to show the marks in heaven. 

It humbles me that I must use, 

At times, the shape of common woes ; 

But mourners' robes are few to choose; 
Like utterance from like sorrow flows. 



Outstretched I hold my acrid cup, 
I ask no grace from king or clown 

The hardy hand that takes it up, 
May curse me when he sets it do 



wn. 



12 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



111. 

Let him who dares usurp God's right 
To sit in judgment on the dead, 

Be sure no trace of sinful blight 

Corrupts his heart or wrongs his head. 

Let him be sure that all is fair 
Within his round of sin-born clay; 

That penance long and fast and prayer 
Have purged his grosser parts away. 

He should be guilt and passion free 
To whom this awful cause is given, 

And like Elijah stand, when he 

Stepped in the flesh from earth to heaven. 

"With humble soul, and reverence deep, 
He should approach the holy gloom ; 

And lowly kneel, and lowly weep : 
ISTot, like a vandal, burst the tomb. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 13 

And when the coffin-lid is raised, 

\Yhcre lies the dumb, defenceless man, 

Let him remember those who praised, 
And count his virtues if he can. 

We judge the act and consequence, 

We blindly hit the truth perchance; 
But God looks through this film of sense; 
He weighs the heart and circumstance. 

What in our eyes is glaring crime. 
In God's may be a thing to bless ; 

Our eyes see ill through space and time ; 
We cannot know, we can but guess. 

Let him who judges have a fear 

Lest hearts be wrung and eyes made dim, 
And tremble lest an orphan's tear 

May curse his sacrilege and him. 

And when the final verdict 's made, 
Stretch not the law to meet the case ; 

Stern Justice lays aside her blade 
AYhen gazing in a dead man's face. 



14 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Keeping this solemn charge at heart. 
Draw near the grave, and lay it bare; 

Assume your self-appointed part; — 

Kow judge the dead man, if you dare ! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 15 



lY. 



I MAKE a pageant of my pain, 

Some say, throughout my dreary song, 

And mar the sweetness of my strain 

With dismal groans at crime and wrong. 

It may be so : I can but sing ; 

For thus one half my grief is drowned: 
The wild bird, struck beneath the wing. 

Becks little how his note may sound. 

This cry of pain invades the land, 
It fills my ears, it will not pass ; 

Life's brightest and most golden sand 
Euns grating through the narrow glass. 

I do not say our journey goes 

Without some roses, there and here ; 

Although short seasons has the rose, 
The thorns are growing all the year. 



16 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

J qiiarrel not with human "iiiirth ; 

I envy not the man who steals 
His hard-wrung pleasures from the earth, 

And swings the wine-cup till he reels. 

I shall not enter at his door 

AYith doleful songs, to move his scorn ; 
May roses crown him o'er and o'er! 

I sing for him Avho feels the thorn. 

I care not who are deaf, w^ho hear: 
Amidst the people's groan and shout, 

I sing as nature wnlls; the ear 

'TavouM hear my song must seek it out. 

And if it be a moan or sigh, 

Unwelcome, foolish, as you deem, 

I pray you pass me lightly by. 

And leave the dreamer to his dream. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 17 



y. 



To-day my inmost soul was stirred: 
I saw the crocus from the ground 

Burst, like a little flame, and heard 

The wandering bluebird's trumpet sound. 

The heat of life is in the air, 

And recreated Sum.mer swings 
Her first faint odors here and there, 

To lure the bee's adventurous wings. 

What if my soul should strain the chain 
That binds her to this silent grave. 

And long o'er hill and vale again 
The pinion of her youth to wave? 

Go forth, O soul, and take thy flight ! 

Dash through the meadows' fiery bloom ! 

I know thou wilt return ere night, 

And sink and settle in the tomb. 
h 2* 



18 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



YI. 



TiiY grave is shut against the Hes 

Of this false world. Thou art at rest, 

With eyelids pressed on sightless eyes, 
Palms crossed above thy breathless breast. 

The fretful stir of sense is gone; 

Thou canst not hear these miscreants roar. 
I, passion-fraught, I hear alone — 

Alone, and thank my God therefore! 

Or if from lieaven's far crystal height 

Thy disembodied soul can see. 
Earth's gayest or most solemn sight 

May seem a phantasm to thee. 

Our comic and our tragic play 

To thee are but illusions vain, 
Theatric shows that pass away 

In smiles, or leave a pleasing pain. 



THE HOOK OF TlIK DEAD. l\) 

Majestic Soul, rebuke me not, 
If; while I fill this luirrovv Btago, 

My higher nature is forgot, 

Lost ill the actor's painted rago. 

To mo this scene is all in all ; 

I am the thing I seem to be : 
The bell will ring, the curtain fall, 

I pass into reality. 



rilK BOOK OF Tllb: DEM). 



VJI. 

If this cruel cup of \oyq, and hate 
Shall pass to other lips than mine, 

And mortals, of an older date, 

Make mouths above my bitter wine; 

And cry, " Behold, he gives our thirst 
A sponge of vinegar and gall!" 

I answer, Bear my cross accurst. 

And this fell draught shall not appall. 

Nay, rather merciful and mild. 

To such a thirst, the draught will seem ; 
For one with raging famine wild 

Prinks gladl}' at the foulest stream. 

O solemn lino, arrayed in black, 

That shades you to the inmost lieart. 

Who tread the wide funereal track 

On which earth's fated mourners start! — 



THE BOOK OF TlIK DEAD. 21 

Tho ]on<i; proccHsion, never done, 

Tliat weiii'ies out the eoiniileHH yeiirs, 

Whose m:\reh is timed by wob and groan, 
And watered vvitli ])er[)etual tears; — 

I know you by your shuddering sighs, 
Your lips severe, your figures bent, 

And tlius, beneath your (lowneast eyes, 
1 spread my awi'ul sacrament! 



Tin: BOOK OF TlIK DEAD. 



YIII. 

Sometimes 1 weury of my task, 

And coaso to ply my vongcliil tlioiig; 

A\\(\ oi' my judi^mcnt coldly ask, 
Aro these dull cuttle worth ii song? 

Shiill I ])reserve in studied rhyme 
J^lach ignominious vilhiin's name, 

And give him, in tiie after-time, 
An immortality of shame? 

Shall they, hung on the sweeping skirts 
Of coming years, di'ag out their doom, 

While men of shy but pure deserts 
Are mouldering in a nameless tomb? 

1 half repent my own device: 

Like ancien't Egypt's erring priests, 

I waste my ]n-ecious oil and spice, 
Embalming coarse and vulgar boasts. 



THE HOOK OF Tin<: dkad. 2:3 

Sure cvcji ill llioMo hIovv, (Ii'udi^ini^ <^«*yi^j 

Aro men wlioso lioiirts and (IccdH arc bright, 

WIh) well doHcrvo a pool'H liiyH : 

TliuH Hlruck, [ turn to heaven Cor li^liL 

lUit as to (lod'B ctei'nal blue, 

1 lill my love-devoted liead, 
Fi'om inner deplhH come ^lidin;^- tliroiign 

l^lie Htern, cold features of tiie dea(i. 

I bow, T weep ; I cannot choose ; 

In vain irnplorin*^ pity cries; 
In vain I iiilter or I'eliiHo 

Beneath the mandate of those eyes. 

Once more the scourge in Cui-y l)eats, 
Tiio writl»in<^" culprits fec^l their f'atci, 

And love, un(;onqueral)le, completes 
IMie intermitted task of hate. 



24 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



IX. 



I HEAR the clarions of the day, 

Night's misty veil is upward drawn, 

And with its goklcn fringes pUiy 
The jewelled fingers of the dawn. 

The curling vapors, one by one, 
Are shot with opalescent gleams, 

And, now, the almost risen sun 

Darts up a thousand crimson streams. 

From heaven to earth the splendor steals, 
Down gilded vanes to windowed towers; 

The conscious bells break out in peals, — 
God ! what a wondrous world is ours ! 

The fiery colors slowly fade, 

In sapphire depths they pass awa}'; 

The sun begins his grand parade, 
From pole to pole 'tis perfect day. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 25 

Earth's cliildrcn feel their mother warm. 
From drowsy beds they wake and start, 

And forth, through streets and alleys, swarm 
In myriads to the noisy mart. 

Oh ! happy toil ! Oh ! blessed fate ! 

To no one thought too close confined. 
That, Avith each motion, drops a date, 

And shifts the pictures of the mind. 

I envy you your changing strife, 

Your weary hours, your evening rest, 

When all the little cares of life 

Are lulled to slumber in the breast; 

For my poor soul, that still will float 

Near one idea of stern device. 
Drifts on, like the Laplander's boat, 

Close moored beside its berg of ice. 



26 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



X. 



If passion less, and reason more, 

My wayward nature checked and led, 

If some great change of empire bore 
The seat of rule from heart to head ; 

If, with the dullards, I inclined 

To count my gold, and drop to clay, 

And leave the fingered stuff behind, 
To witness me to such as they; 

If I could trim my muse's wing. 
Control her flight, abate her rage. 

And teach her, a well-ordered thing, 
To coo and warble in a cage ; 

If I could school my face to show 
A visored hate, a vapid love. 

And range my feelings in a row, 
For any fool at will to move ; 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 27 

If I could lie iind feign, to draw 

My simple neighbor in a trap, 
Just on the outskirts of the law, 

Securely sheltered from mishap ; 

If that, to which all hearts are sold, 
Could be the god on which I call, — 

Tliat greasy harlot, common gold, 
The temptress of man's second fall ; 

If in my soul the Lord were dead, 
And conscience dumb and pitiless. 

And Aaron's golden calf instead 
Stared o'er the moral wilderness; 

Why, then, this servile world would praise 
The very ground on which I stood, 

And the base scoundrels of these lays 
Would hail me of their brotherhood. 



28 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XL 



Peter and Judas merged in one! 

Two traitors, matchless till thy time, 
It needs to show the deed thou hast done, 

And fill the measure of thy crime. 

Him thou deniedst, and sold to men, 

Was more to thee than aught on earth ; 

He raised thy narrow fortunes when 
The world was cold before thy worth. 

Change j^laces with that noble heart; 

If thou wert dead and wronged, w^ould he, 
I ask thee, act so vile a part 

In dealing with thy memory? 

Oh, fie ! conceal thy dirty gold. 
Thy secret comfort, open shame ! 

For thirty pieces thou hast sold 
The treasure of an honest name. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 29 

Or else let Judas' story yield 
Its fullest fruit : Take up thy pelf, 

Seek out the Potter, buy his field. 
And in some corner hang thyself! 



3* 



30 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XII. 

While this shall stand, the wicked deeds 
Of these base men shall never die: 

A thousand years the wheaten seeds 
Within the miinnny's palms may lie ; — 

A thousand years, and once again 
A light breaks in upon the tomb, 

And from those dusty hands the grain 
Is sown, o'er harvest-fields to bloom. 

And so may sleep my angry rhymes. 
And you may say, "The fellow raves!" 

I smile : these lines, in after-times, 

Shall drag you naked from your graves. 

And save the record I have made, 
Your lives shall have no history. 

And that shall cast a baleful shade 
Upon your shameful progeny. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 31 



XIIL 

The regicides wlio slew King Charles, 
And won the realm, and bore the sway, 

AYere, like yourselves, but vulgar carls. 
Yet, like yourselves, they had their day. 

For years they held the kingdom fast. 
And all their future days looked fair ; 

And when from earth they grandly passed, 
They left it to their children's care. 

J3ut time set all their wrongs to rights ; 

When prone lay every Eoundhead cur, 
Their fathers' skulls were ghastly sights, 

All grinning over Westminster. 



■]2 TllK ll(H>K OF Till'] DEAD. 



A IV. 

1 HAD a \isii)ii of (lio Hii;lit, 
A |)ivsai;'("t of llu^ (lay of doom, 

WIk'ii all llu'. \vi*oni;>i nl»all coino to liL;;lit 
Tliat. Hliiinl>cr in (ho darlviMicd toinh. 

T Haw (lu^ coui't of JjoavoM imcloso, 
Tlio risen Hiiiiioi'H widly iiuH^t ; 

Our i;'(>od, our ill, our Jojh, our wooh, 
Stood nakod at tho jud^nuMit-soat. 

My culpiils lound a lorcniost placo. 

1 ^azod on (houi : 1 l»oro no <;rudi;o 
Im'I'oih^ ins sltMMi, accusiui;' laco, 

1 Miliu\ss, and oui" (lod (ho judi^'O. 

1 i;azod on Ihoni, 1 oaztxl around ; 

No passion hold mo in oonlrol; 
Tho sonso ol' awo was so prol'ound, 

So (loop (ho oloai'iioss ol' (ho soul! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 33 

The knave by whom the band was led, 
His scarlet face was pallid grown, 

The crimson hair upon his head 
Eose up, as if it were his own. 

Some showed a guilty, downcast look, 
And some their aching vision screened 

From the terrific light that shook 
These twelve apostles of the fiend. 

And he who had betrayed the dead. 
When those cold eyes upon him fell. 

To shun that glance, ere aught was said. 
Slunk downward into endless hell. 

The cause was judged, the verdict given, 
So plain that every soul might hear; 

And the great truth was blown through heaven, 
From golden clarions, far and near. 

Now let men judge, as men think right, 

They only see as men may see : 

I had a vision of the night. 

By gracious God 'twas sent to me. 
c 



34 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XV. 

The moon sails up the mottled sky, 

Half bidden in a fleecy sbroud, 
And from the east, with sword on high, 

Orion plunges through the cloud. 

The west is clear. One solemn star 

Looks at its image in the wave : 
The star seems very sad and far; 

It bends above my loVed one's grave. 

Was that a rushing of the wind, 
A noise of beasts, a shriek for aid. 

Or cry of vampires, furj^-blind, 

That hunger where my dead is laid ? 

Forth through the moonlight, towards the glow 
Of yon lone star, I take my way ; 

And at thy hillock bending low, 
I sing to thee a tender lay. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 35 

The vampires' howl was fierce and high; 

It sinks to silence, and they flit 
Back to their noisome dens, while I 

Make a faint music where I sit. 



36 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XVI. 

When tlic dead Cid was laid in state, 
His body armed, his trophies near, 

A caitiff Jew, inflamed with hate. 

Stole through the chancel to the bier. 

Amid the candle-light he stood, 
And peered into the warrior's face, 

To curse, in his vindictive mood, 
That stern despiser of his race. 

His fury kindled as he cursed. 

He scorned the dead, he grinned, he jeered; 
His courage rose, he did his worst. 

He plucked the hero by the beard. 

The pale face flushed, and instant rang 
A clamor through the startled night; 

With sword half drawn, the corpse upsprang ; 
The Hebrew fled in mad affright. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 37 

If thou, poor corpse, that 'mid this band 
Of slanderous churls so still dost lie, 

Couldst move one finger of thy hand, 
How would these Jews in terror fly ! 



38 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XYII. 

If yon cold lizard, sliming o'er 
The sacred tablet of the dead, 

Had been half human at the core, 

These bitter tears had ne'er been shed. 

Had he possessed a common soul, 
A faith in God, a heart, a brain, 

I ne'er had penned this dreadful scroll, 
And my bruised heart might heal again. 

Had he but shown a decent sense 
Of what is due the giver's hand. 

But paid for gold with copper pence. 
This shame had vanished from the land. 

I little hoped from thee; in fact, 

I knew how thin thy cold blood ran ; 

I only thought to see thee act, 
Not as a hero, as a man. 



TlIK BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XYIII. 

Falhe Pilate waslied bis guilty bands 
Before tbe congregated Jews, 

And said, " Bcbold, tbis just man stands 
Acquitted ; wby is be accused ?" 

But wbcn tbcy cried more eagerly, 
Appalled tbe trembling coward stood ; 

And said, '' Bear witness, I am free ! 
Upon you be bis guiltless blood!" 

'Tvvas Pilate's part to bind or loose; 

To yield bis functions, at tbe stir 
Of tbreatening tongues, was vain excuse, 

And Pilate was a murderer. 



40 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XIX. 

Oft when tby duties bound tlieo down 

To wearying labor, T, more free, 
Fled from the stagnant beat of town, 

And sougbt to lure tbee after me. 

In vain I tried tbe oriole's call. 

In vain tbe robin's tender note, 
In vain tbe woodland songsters all 

Made music in my swelling throat. 

In vain I shook the morning spray 

From blossom-boughs, or round thee blew 

The odor of tbe new-mown hay 

From bill-sides steaming with the dew. 

Or painted nature's sterner moods, — 
The flashing cloud, tbe driving rain, 

When through the slant and groaning woods 
Eoars the terrific hurricane. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 41 

Or to the moiintiihis bare and bleak, 

Through gulfs, through crags, o'er ledges clomb, 
And showed how from the cloven peak 

The streams plunge out in clouds of foam. 

Or lightly touched on pastoral joys, — 

The woolly flock, the grazing kine; 
What simple things are Damon's toys, 

How Chloe's milky buckets shine ! 

Or with the ocean's moaning cry, 

Bewailed thy absence from afar; 
Or mounting to the darkening sky, 

Gazed at thee from the evening star. 

In vain I pled with all my art ; 

I had no power to move thee then ; 
Thy joys were in the human heart, 

Amidst the press and throng of men. 

I pointed to the o'erworked dust 

That swells the church-yard mounds: you said, 

" 'Twere better to wear out than rust: 

There is rest enough amongst the dead." 
4* 



42 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Poor soul, I mourn thy labor lost; 

Thy self-denying purpose gained, 
But gained at a prodigious cost, — 

Thy work denied, thy memory stained. 

I may misjudge. Thy life to thee, 
Perhaps, was filled with joyous hours, 

And seemed as fair an empery 

As that o'er which the poet towers. 

'Tis for omniscient God alone 

To know who grovels, who ascends : 

We work His purpose, one by one, 
In divers ways, to divers ends. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 43 



XX. 

The chain that binds me to this oar 
Is galling to my sentient soul ; 

My spirits, fretted sick and sore, 
In endless anguish toss and roll. 

The face of heaven is hard and black, 
Gaunt nature scorns my human woi', 

The tardy arm of God is slack, 
And hell a far-off, painted show. 

God's ear is deaf to wrong or right ; 

In vain my ceaseless prayer I j^our, 
Through painful day and troubled night, 

For simple justice, nothing more. 

They bask and fatten in the sun. 

These schemers, and they grin with mirth 

At every cunning wrong they have done 
To truth, to right, to buried worth. 



41 THE HOOK or THE DEAD. 

J road ol' oiaiul old Ilobrow days, 

When CJod judo-cd earth, and 1 but sec, 

In all llial st'i-ibc ov j)r(>])lK't says, 
I'lic wreck of dead inylholo^y. 

Tliis world oi' oui's, this modern world, 
That seeks no heaven, and shuiis no iit>Ii, 

By art and science Ibrward hurled, 
CJets on without a (Joti as well. 

tSo sick at heart, in angry nu)od, 

1 throw my bitter pen aside. 
And cry, "Why care loi- ill or ii;ood. 

Or any end tliat nuiy betide? 

" I'll live my lil'e, I'll l)ranch and bloom, 
111 kill the conscience in my breast: 

So I'rom this dreadlul work of doom 
My hand shall have eternal rest I" 

1 hear tlie swiil descending rush 
Of angol wings, the hovering play, 

The rustic, and the awful hush 
That Ibllows, as they Ibid away. 



TlIK BOOK OF THE DEAD. 45 

1 know who stiinda beside my chiiir, 
AYlio sternly motions to my pen ; 

1 grasp it, in foredoomed despiiir, 
And ])ly my fearful task again. 

Onco more the pinions arc unfurled, 
They boat the air, they mount on high, 

And from this low, sin-bounded world, 
Go fanning gently up the sky. 



46 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XXT. 

For gold you did your treacherous deed, 
Mere money was your aim and end ; 

To selfish lust you gave good heed, 

And turned against your helpless friend. 

The only chance fate e'er bestowed, 
Where power was given you to repay, 

In scanty weight, the debt you owed, 
Your craft used only to betray. 

The vilest baseness of your kind — 
The miser's greed, the coward's fear — 

I grant your luilure, yet I find 

Nowhere in human kind your peer. 

Since the world's history began, 
No record stands of one who sold 

So broadly, in the face of man. 
His buried friend for dirty gold. 



TJIK BOOK OF THE DEAD. 47 

Poor Jiuhis, for his thirty pciico, 

A living victim diirod to sell ; 
And when ho waw the consequence, 

Fell riven with the pangs of hell. 

But to the treachery of the Jew 
You join the dastard, and instead 

Of bartering with your sordid crew 
For one alive, you sell the dead. 

Is gold to conscience bolt and bar. 
Against all entrance sound and firm? 

I fear it cannot heal the scar 

Gnawed through by the undying worm. 

No man will envy you your prize; 

I hold the treasure dearly bought ; 
I only see before your eyes 

A bag of gold, a hell of thought. 



48 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XXII. 

I STAND beside the sea once more, 
Its measured murmur comes to me ; 

The breeze is low upon the shore, 
And low upon the purple sea. 

Across the bay the flat sand sweeps, 
To where the helmed light-house stands 

Upon its post, and vigil keeps, 

Far seaward marshalling all the lands. 

The hollow surges rise and fall, 
The ships steal up the quiet bay; 

I scarcely hear or see at all, 

My thoughts are flown so far away. 

They follow on yon sea-bird's track. 
Beyond the beacon's crystal dome ; 

They will not falter, nor come back. 
Until they find my darkened home. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 49 

Ah! woo is mc! 'tis scarce a year 
Since, gazing o'er this moaning main, 

My thoughts flew liome without a fear. 
And with content returned again. 

To-day, alas ! the fancies dark, 

That from my laden bosom flew, 
Returning, came into the ark, 

Not with the olive, with the yew. 

The ships draw slowl}^ towards the strand, 
The watchers' hearts with hope beat high ; — 

But ne'er again wilt thou touch land. 
Lost, lost in yonder sapphire sky ! 



50 



77//-; />'(>(>/v' (>/'' 77//-; Dl'lAl). 



.win. 

TiiK iioMosl. hcari, I o\'(U- laicw 

hic'd wlu'ii (Jiiiio coascd lo risc^ iiiid lull 
My lovrs, iiidocd, arc shy nii<l low ; 

My l()V(^ loi* llic'o was crown of all. 

I loved (lice lor (Iiy honest scoimi 

or I'raiid and wi'oni;-, ( h y (cMidcr nilh, 

Tluil. loiKdied (he lowest (hini; lorloi-n, 
Thy oai;lc i^rasp on rii;ht and li'nth. 

I never Uncnv thy (()ni;nc (o hanii,-, 
ndorc I'icdi wj'oni;', in selfish (Vii;ht; 

l>iit 1 have heard it wlu-n it ran,!;', 
A claiMon, on the side ol' riirht. 



Tho clearness of (iiy menial view 
l^vinhraccd all ohjecis (hat. it soni;'h(. 

And j)ierce(l the darUest avenno 
or hiL;h and spccnlativc (honi;ht. 



THE HOOK OF Till] DEAD. 51 

Jt wisely liuiglil tlio j)r()U(l nnd rich, 
It roiiHod the poor inun'M iiuniMo lire, 

And HoineliineH even .stniek the piteli, 
To tune my itilHe and J:in"in^ 'yi'^* 

Where'er it fell, a ray vvaa aliod, 

Some truth revealed, some reason found ; 

'Lilv'e a revolvinii,- iiglit, it Hj)read 

The wliole horizon round and round. 

AVe chihlren laud the Iiero'w prize. 

The outward (yhristiaii'n ])atent wortli ; 

Forgetting that true goodness flies 
Above the plaudits of* this earth. 

The dreadful victory of the field 

'Tvvixt soul and self is never known ; 

Nor know we of the man who kneeled, 
In secret prayer, to (Jod alone. 

This struggle and this faith were thine; 

Wy man no victor's crown was given ; 
]Uit even now a light may shine 

Around thy brows in highest heaven. 



THE BOOK OF THE DKAD. 



XXIV. 

At limes tlio ]):i(iciK'o of \\\y soul 
With suddiMi I'jii^'O is ovorllowii ; 

J. sj):ii'klo lii<o nil nn<;iy coal 

At Avhic'h a liirious hrcalh is l)l()\vii. 

Ill wialh my iVoiiziiMJ luimhcrs roar, 
A bi'andisluMl swoi'd in every verse; 

And thus upon my Ibes 1 pour 

M'he llames of my prophetic curse. 

May yon, who so for money yearn, 
Tront 1 hirst lor <j;old l>e ne'er exenipl 

And may each several coin you earn, 
Marn lor }()u a dislincl contempt! 

May every virtue you can claim 
Be traded oil", he priced and sold, 

And made an oll'erinii^ of shame 
Hefore your loathsome idol, i;{)l(l ! 



T1I1<: HOOK OF THE DEAD. 53 

The miser's lust, the miwcr's fear, 

Possess you, soul aiid lieurl unci mind, 

Mtil<e you suspect love's holiest tear, 
And shut your door against, your kind! 

May money be your all in all. 

Your oidy gain, your only power, 
The god on which your terrors call 

For comfort in your dying hour! 

And, at that hour, may money dole 

Such coinfort as it has in store; 
As on your lonely beds you roll. 

May your hands clutch abroad for more! 

So dying, in 3'our codins rot! — 

The plough pass o'er your nameless graves! — 
Your gold be as the heavy shot 

That sinks the sailor in the waves ! 



5* 



5-4 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XXV. 

With passion yet my iiatiiro quakes ; 

J quiver to the inmost soul, 
Lik'O an alarmini;- hell that shakos 

After its tong-ue has eeased to toll. 

After the hell has eeased to heat, 

What follows on the deafening; din? 

(Jood (Christian jieople calmly meet, 
And solemn services hei;in. 

So J, hy stormy passion* riven, 
Eestrain my rago, devoutl}' how. 

And turn my asking' face to heaven. 
But tind a darkness on CJod's hrow. 

I know 1 strode a step too far; 

1 reached with my audacious hand, 
Above the privilei^e of my star, 

And eanoht at (M)d's aven<;-ing brand. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 55 

I drop my bciul and pardon ask : 

This mandate sternly comes from Thee : 

"O Poet, do thy hnman task, 

And leave the end of things to Me !" 



5(j THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



rp 



xxvr. 

I KNOW the men of iifter-time 

With this fierce record will be vexed ; 
The comments on my culprits' crime 

Will fiir outweigh the author's text. 



I know howe'er that, now and then, 
Some light will fall on what is said ; 

Some name be branded with the pen, 
Some trespass find its proper head. 

Their catalogue, with date and name 
And due descent, shall surely last; 

As how their race from nothing came. 
And into worse than nothing passed. 

Dead, damned, forgotten, save for me. 
This rubbish, that I choose to save. 

Shall surge into eternity, 

The scum and outcast of the wave. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 57 

For them the foot of Time shall stand, 
His scythe hang icily, and his glass 

E-efuse to turn its blinding sand ; — 

They shall not hide beneath the grass. 

The men, themselves, to me are naught ; 

Their crime, not them, is what I hate; 
For as these fatal lines are wrought, 

I rather sorrow at their fate. 

If my poor word were future law, 

I fain would give their names relief, — 

Make them mere men of rags and straw, 
Mere scarecrows to their brother thief. 

But men will delve in olden dates ; 

1 know the weight of what I do; 
And how the scourges of the Fates 

Wnll drive the rogues in oi:>en view. 

My verdict shall not be reversed : 

To me and mine no ruth they show : 

They do their worst, I do my worst ; 
But mine will be a lastinir blow. 



58 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



xxvir. 

To-day .should bo a golden one : 

Within my calendar it standi 
As that whereon love's chains were run 

Around my outstretched willing hands. 

O dearest, on your candid brow 
I lay my kisses, but you start : 

You see a cloud upon me now, 
You know a trouble in my lieart. 

Not thus our mated days began : 
Tliat morn my kisses warmly fell ; 

For shouting Joy before us ran, 

And laughed, and shook his merry* bell. 

h^rom end to end the world was bright, 
The heavens with glory overflown ; 

And when the stars came out at night, 
Their size and light had strangely grown. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 59 

I drew a picture of our days, 

What care might come, what mirth beguile; 
A life that led through studious ways, 

Yet brightened by the Muses' smile. 

We two have kept my picture true, 
And daily more and more it shone, 

Till other fingers laid a hue 
Upon it, and it sank in tone. 

Still hail with me our bridal morn. 

And spread the feast, and bring the wine : 

Against this year of days forlorn 
It makes a little circle shine. 



GO THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XXYIII. 

Of old Aniilcar called bis son 

Before the gods, and made bim swear, 

Wbile swords could strike or blood could run, 
Unending bate towards Rome to bear. 

So tbou, my son, witb lifted band. 

As solemnly avow to me. 
Against this sacrilegious band, 

Perj^etual strife and enmity. 

My latter days small joy impart ; 

Deatb conies in sadness, not in fear ; 
I feel bis toucb upon my beart, 

I bear bis footstep in my ear. 

Half-way I'll step my guest to greet, 
I'll face tbe sbadow at my gate, 

Witb, Welcome, friend ! at last we meet : 
Receive my band : tbou bast tarried late ! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 61 

But if I leave my work undone, 

My scroll of vengeance scant and strait, 

To thy young hand, my only son, 
The fearful task I dedicate. 

By night or day, through foul or fair. 

Pursue this purpose to its end : 
God grant the sacred gift I bear. 

Thrice magnified, on thee descend ! 

Scourge wrong and fi-aud, scourge fool and knave, 
Nor care what tears or blood you draw; 

Train your young sinews till you have 
The panther's tread, the lion's paw ! 

Tell liars that they lie; and tell 

The high-set scoundrel that his pelf 

Was minted in the fires of hell, 

And there shall perish with himself! 

llemember, that the holiest name. 

Earth knows, was merciless to wrong : 

He reddened once with righteous sham >, 

And in the Temple used the thong. 
6 



()2 'nii: nooK or riir: />/;.i/). 

MtMi'.s lips sIkiII follow IIhh^ with j;i'onnM; 

IVM-luips (hou'lt win :i in:nivi-'s crown; 
r>n|. shonl, liki> SU'plion, Mind with stones, 

ljilu> l\MiM-, li:ini;in!:; vis:ii;(> down I 

'riu> boldly i;-ood aro lUMrlyrs vol : 

Wlio dari^s lo scorn (liis siiHul world, 

Shall tind his cross is ready sol, 

And slon<*s aro gulhorod li) bo hui'lod. 

ChrisCs nianlK^ will not stretch and flow, 
Its scanty iVoodoni hinds and irUs, 

Man wcai's it in tho chnrch tor show, 
Unt strips it. otV to do his works. 

.Ho thon a Chi-istian nior(> sinct'rc, 
Wo jnst. and trnc, he wis(> and hold ; 

Nor shame thy MastiM* tor a sneer, 
Nor sell ilini loi- a ha^r oi' I'old ! 



Ue thon a soIdiiM* ot' tho Lord. 

Arnied with the sword, the cross, the lyre 
I'n^ss onward thronj:;h the pai;'an hor(h\ 

Nor tear, nor pausi\ nor turn, nor tii'o! 



77//-; IU)()I< OF Tin: DFAl). 



03 



Truo poi'ls i\yo Iimh' pi'oplu^ls, soiit 

'Vo s<':ill(*r \\y.\v Mn-()Hi;-li \vi('l<o(l hinds; — 

'l\ik(^ iliy commiHsion by dcHcdiit, 

Willi j»i-iiy(M-, :ui(i layiiii;- on ol" liimds! 



C4 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XXIX. 

Let him wlio in my footsteps treads 
Be patient till the march is o'er, 

Nor ask why 'round these brainless heads 
I swing the hammer of old Tbor. 

It is the stigma of our land 

That money is our only aim, 
That all things bow to its command. 

That wealth is rank, respect, and fame : 

That where our native face is seen 
This shameful passion shows its trace, 

And hungry avarice makes keen 

The sharpened features of our race : 

That art is dead, religion dull, 

Law idle, social virtue worse ; 
The sharper and the sharper's gull 

Breed and divide a common curse. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. G5 

Some truth is wrapped in many lies: 

I liold it base the golden fool 
Can win a reverence from our e3^cs, 

And bear so absolute a rule. 

Nowhere, between the fi-ozen poles, 
Is gold so reckoned in the count; 

Nowhere the car of Mammon rolls 
So crushing and so paramount. 

I grant, the rogue who bears a brand, 
Sometimes, may feel its fiery smart ; 

But yet the wealth in his command 
Is flattered, as a thing apart. 

It soothes the pangs of his disgrace ; 

It gives him power, if not respect : 
With shouts we yield the rich man place, 

But whisper of the rogue's defect. 

The purse-proud scoundrels whom I strip. 

Are bare that all may see them pass ; 
And when I wield my scornful whip. 

Through them I castigate the class. 

e 0* 



QQ THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Perhaps, like Canute on the shore, 
I bid the raging waves subside, 

Half-conscious that the next fell roar 
Will bury me beneath the tide. 

Come what may come, the word is said ; 

For man's behoof my best I give : 
The martyr's ring may fit my head, 

I perish, but the word shall live. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 67 



XXX. 

The poet's word that stings and lives, 
Whose blow a subtile bane distils, 

And breeds within the wound it gives 
The larva of a thousand ills, 

To hornj-hided brutes like these 
May be small matter for distress : 

But if my ballads cross the seas, 
And thread the pathless wilderness. 

And climb the linked mountains o'er, 
And down the sinuous rivers steer. 

And warble at the poor man's door, 
And thunder at the rich man's ear; — 

If every breeze of heaven that blows 
Shall blow these leaves about the land. 

And every tide that ebbs and flows 
Shall wash them on another strand ; — 



08 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

11' years sluill give these gniveii lines 
A deeper meiinini;-, aiul more strongtli, 

Ami men discuss them o'er their wines, 
And women talk of them at length; — 

Till, in all eai's, each noteless name 
Is blared, as with a trumj^et's blast, 

T think, these knaves may feel some shame, 
Through all their brazen mail, at last. 



tiif: book of the dead. 69 



XXXI. 

If all the liars under heaven 

Could in one conclave congregate, — 

To every tongue were charter given 
To hiss at thee its baneful hate ; — 

AYere reason baffled by the din, 

And truth made blind, and justice dumb, 
Till ever}^ shape and shade of sin 

AVcre piled upon thy guiltless tomb;— 

Should men, deluded by the cry, 
Become thy enemies from choice, 

Eelieve and circulate the lie, 

Defended by the general voice ; — 

Till none, heroically run mad, 

Dared lift a secret breath with me ; — 

For man, the thing would make me sad ; 
It would not shake mv faith in thee. 



70 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XXXII. 

I KNOW not to what hearts T speak ; 

Perchance, to common, hnman ones; 
Or hnnible liearts, hearts very meek, 

Through which the general current runs. 

Of him, the lowest of them all, 

I ask in tones to suit his ear, 
In bated breath, with dying fall 

Made tremulous by ghastly fear ; — 

I ask, I say, this timid heart. 

If your beloved were cold in death, 

And o'er his sacred bier the mart 

vShould blow its sacrilegious breath ; — 

Each greasy huckster, dropping trade, 
Should near the speechless body crowd, 

And, by its silence venturous mude, 

Should spurn the dead man in his shroud 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 71 

And bniwl, and lie, and call hini fonl, 
And spit their rancorous bane about, 

Until your I'aint and stricken soul 
Revolted at the general shout ; 

And, stunned with horror, you recoiled. 
In mute ania/einent, shocked to see 

The man, you held most pure, so soiled 
AVith their al)horrent blasphemy; — 

feeble soul, would you retire? 

Would you, submissive, cringe and bow? 

1 answer, flamino- into ire, 

You'd smite the miscreants on the brow ! 



72 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XXXIIJ. 

Faint not, strong heart, beneath thy grief! 

God hears thy ever-rising prayer; 
Be not impatient for relief. 

If He unmoved thy wrongs can bear! 

God sees the wicked delve and sow, 
He sees their thistle's purple crown 

Flaunt in His suffering grain ; but, lo ! 
Ere harvest it is stricken down. 

They build their Babel in His sight, 
From founding unto coping stone, — 

Their pride is monstrous ;— in a night 
They lie beneath it, overthrown. 

His fires consume their cities proud, 

His floods rush through their palace-gates; 

His prophet's voice sounds, clear and loud, 
Midst revelling princes and estates. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 73 

Nor can tbe humbler sinner shun 

The blow that snaps the crown of gold ; 

The liar, ere his lie be done, 

Before the crowd falls still and cold. 

For where the fire bursts out at night, 
Men ask not is it hut or tower; 

They only see a dreadful light, 

And shudder at a boundless power. 

Therefore I will not deem this band 

Of knaves too mean to move God's wrath : 

The lightning, slumbering in His hand. 
Is poised on its appointed path. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XXXIY. 

Coarse miscreant, with llic cringing back, 
And shuffling foot, and llickoring eyes, 

And cloven lip whoso hideous crack 

Buzzes with swarms of countless lies I — 

Sly reptile, with a I'aint, low tone. 

Something between a hiss and whine. 

Where spite and meanness meet in one, 
Serpent and si)aniel both combine! — 

You have questioned, with your double tongue, 
A dead man's fame; with brutal glee, 

Hints and suspicions Ibul have flung: 
Now, living culprit, answer me I 

Know you not one whoso tuneful voice 
Ivedcemed your own ignoble part, 

Whose songs shall make the land rejoice 
When you are colder than your heart? 



THE HOOK OF Tllh: DEAD. 75 

Piificd with your wciilUi, IVoin Hlroot to street, 
J 11 Bonli<l (IrejiMiH, you siiiiliiiii; si)e(l, 

Tlirou^li wjiyw vvliere lie, with slioeKjHS feel 
111 tiitlerH, iilniost begged liin breiid, 

Till, HtuTig witli \v:ui(, diHeiiHe, and HliniTHi, 
Jle giive the IVu itlens struggle u|), 

And drowned the buddings oi* his iiinie 
Within the drunkiird's diz/y eup. 

Nay, lower yet; IVoiii deep to dec^p 

His des|)(U'ate sj)irit sank away, 
^rill, mad, men saw him laugh and weep 

JJeneath the j)ublic light ol' day. 

])i<l you streteh out your kindred hand. 
To lielp that starved and wretehed soul. 

Betwixt Ids shame and weakness stand, 
To save him from the certain goal ? 

No! in the pauj)er's filthy cell 

A stranger lodged the vagrant wretch, — 
A ])oor, mad beggar! Is it well? 

How sleeps your conscience on this stretch T 



7(> TllK BOOK OF Tin: DEAD. 

I charge you, in the name of God, 
Go o'er your history day by day. 

Since children ^porting on the sod, 
With infant love at infant play, 

lie held you in his tender arms; 

Tlien touch that dreadful day of doom. 
With all its horrors and alarms, * 

That scowls upon him from the tomb. 

How has your duty been performed — 
Your simple duty, nothing more — 

Towards him whose baby life was warmed 
From the same father's scanty store? 

I cannot ^ay how deeds like ^^ours 
Appear in other eyes, nor know 

IIow even your fellow-rogue endures 
To look upon a thing so low : 

But in the awful sight of God, 

There burns upon your brow a stain 

That cries forever, " blood for blood 1" 
Answer! where is your brother, Cain? 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XXXV. 

I TWINE to-day a victor's crown, 

To dock your champion's maidy head, 

And shade the terrors of liis frown, 
O doughty foemcn of the dead ! 

And since his deeds are new and strange, 
JSTo common chaplet shall he w^car ; 

Some fresh device I would arrange, 
That gest and guerdon maj^ compare. 

The cursed cross some leaves shall yield, 
And some the bough that Judas bent, 

And some I'll gather from the field 

Where Joseph's brothers pitched their tent. 

The viper of the proverb old, 

That stung the warming breast, shall clasp 
The wreath together, fold in fold 

With him that bit against the rasp. 



78 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

And strangling both, the wily snake, 
By which our common mother fell. 

Upon his lifted crest shall shako 
Just Aristides' pearly shell. 

The tears that banished Marius shed 
O'er ruined Carthago, shall be seen, 

Like dew-drops, over all disi)reacl, 

To keep the garland bright and green. 

Wherever truth has been abused. 
Or man's ingratitude has lent 

Its stain to aught, it shall be used. 
To add another ornament. 

And when the work is wholly done, 
I'll plume the chaplet with this pen ; 

And having crowned your champion, 
I'll set him in the sii>-ht of men. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 79 



XXXVI. 

Our dead to us ure never deiid 
Until their memories are erased ; 

For oftentimes my hands arc led 
To do the very things he praised. 

Not in remembrance are they done, 
Eut timidly, as though he stood 

Alive beneath the blessed sun, 

And smiled in his approving mood. 

I sing some ballad gay and droll, 

Some qui]) he loved, ere going hence, 

And think it strange he does not roll 
Ilis laughter out, and drown the sense. 

I do not think he cannot smile; 

I drop my head, and bend my eai', 
And only ask myself the while. 

Is he so far he cannot hear? 



80 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

It costs an effort of tbc mind, 

A stretch of memory strong and dread, 

Ere, groping through my brain, I find 
The vision of his dying bed. 

Through all this woful history, 

I have called on him, by doubt oppressed, 
And that he would not answer me, 

Has moved me more than all the rest. 

'Twere best to take this truth, unmixed 
With any fancy: 'neath the sod 

His rigid lips in death are fixed. 
And silent as the lips of God. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 81 



XXXVII. 

The fierce, reljcllious full of vain 

SeemH endless through this dreiiiy iiii^ht: 
It pierces in my blind ; the ptine 

Is starred and streaked with watery light. 

I know the grass upon thy tomb 
Is streaming, like a swimmer's hair. 

And all thy roses' fragrant bloom 
Is floating on the boisterous air. 

Thy reeking violets tangled swim, 
O'erburdened bows thy eglantine. 

And stains of yellow soil bedim 
The lustre of thy myrtle vine. 

The treacherous damp hath slowly slid 

Through oozy roots and melting clay. 

To spread upon thy coffin-lid. 

And help corruption to its prey. 
/ 



82 



TiiF. iu)()i< or Tiir: df.ad. 



A las ! alas ! 1 can bul. si<;"li ; 

^'cl, on my caro i(. soonis :i stain, 
'I'lial (lioii so (losolato shoiililsl^ lio ; 

And (oars aro liillini;' willi llu» fain. 



77/a; /;ooa' (>/.' 77//'; i>r:An. 



XXXVIII. 

Wi'i'ii Hon;;- of MivIm, jumI Iiiiiii oC Ikmim, 
And odoi-oiiM l)i'<';illi oC s\viii«';iiii^- (Iowmm-h, 

Willi (lii(((M-iiii;- 1ht!)m and Hwayirii;' Ivooh, 
lU^iijiri llio (>jirly nioniiii;;- Iioiith. 

'V\\i) W!ii-m ridd of Mi(^ HoiiMicni iiir 

SvviniM !-<»iiiid, willi ^(miIK^ v\h{) uiid liill, 

And, l)iii-iiiri<i; I lii-oiiuli ;i (roldc^i nrljtriij 
TIk^ Hiiii l()(»l<.4 |)|-();idly ()V(>r all. 

80 fjiir jind I'ih^hIi Mk^ laiidH('U|)(i Hlaiids, 

So \'ihd, MO Ixiyond d(M'a.y, 
It looI<M as (hoiii^li (lod'w Hliapiii"^" IkiikIh 

Had jiiHt 1)0011 i-aiHod and drawn awiiy. 



Tlio- lioly l>a|)lisn» ol" (lio i-ain 
Vol Iin<;-(WM, lik(5 a H|)o(Ma-l ^I'ai^o; 

I^^)i' I can Hvv. an aurooh^ plain 

AI)onl. I ho world's ( ransfii'urod I'aci^. 



84 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

The moments come in dreamy bliss, 
In dreamy bliss they pause and pass 

It seems not hard, on days like this, 
Dear Lord, to lie beneath the grass ! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 85 



XXXIX. 

If I could value at its height 

The power I have, or take the praise, 
I daily hear, on faith, some might 

Would animate these failing lays. 

Some token of the master-hand. 

Some notes struck out with confidence. 

Some fiat from the throne, would stand 
As offset to my impotence. 

The feeble heart of self-born doubt 
111 aids a purpose great and strong; 

A grand truth, timidly set out. 

Oft drifts upon the side of wrong. 

Sometimes I quake with voiceless rage. 
Or dull the sense of holy love; 

And, like the novice on the stage. 
Half fear to see my audience move. 



80 tup: book of the dead. 

No trust within myself I feci ; 

I sing my songs, I know not why; 
The maid who sings beside her wheel 

Is silenced by a stranger's eye. 

But she whose tingling ears have heard 
The ^^bravar and the plaudits loud 

Of rapturous men, is only stirred 
To utterance by a listening crowd. 

I never heard these plaudits ring: 
I cannot take the poet's place, 

And boldly to the nations sing, 
Without a blush upon my face. 

In my own w^eak and faulty Ava}', 
I pray j^ou, let my song proceed ; 

For, somehow, God and nature say, 

These rhymes were purposed and decreed. 

To one God gives the robin's tone, 

To one the carol of the lark, 
To one the mocking-bird's, to one 

The owlet's, drearier than the dark. 



TUK BOOK OF THE DEAD. 87 

Taunt not the owlet with his shrieks, 
Nor say he lacks the others' skill : 

A voice of nature through him speaks, 
According to God's plan and will. 



88 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XL. 

Against tlio words wliich current pass, 
Whoso M'iHcloin oven lolly owns, 

That ho who kocps a houso of glass 
Should bo tho last at throwing- stones ;- 

The Ibol who first attacked my dead, 

Forgot his race's history, 
Forgot tho crystal o'er his head, 

That show-caso of their inliuny. 

I marvel, ere, in search of sin, 

About the town he choso to roam, 

His virtuous (jiu^st did not begin, 
Like prudent Charity, at home. 

There, marked and ready for his eyes, 
Js guilt no eloquence can glozo, 

Which all men sco, and nono denies, 
That stiidis beneath tho public nose; — 



TlIK HOOK OF TJIK DEAD. 81) 

That rots and festers in the light, 
To draw inanlciiKrH abhorrent stare ; 

That, in the very (k^i)th8 of night. 
Glows with a ibul putrescent glare. 

l^h'e he set foi'th to scour the land, 

And cleanse the dunghills of the earth, 

Ke should have used his sweetening hand 
About the mansion of his birth. 

Surely this modern ITercules, 

In sallying, must have stumlded o'er 

The loathsome heap that taints the breeze, 
The common nuisance at his door. 

Is virtue, like philosoi)hy, 

A showy saint, of mere parade, 
Who flaunts an outside purity, 

Yet lives at homo an arrant jade? 

If he at whom this shall is flown 

Dare ask what name is here arraigned, 
lie is the only num in town 

Who needs to have the thing explained. 

8- 



90 



Till': ii(H>i< OF riir: dkad. 



XJJ. 

A 8("iiM"iMii!i;i) mIoik^ today was lai<I, 
A sacred cross, altovt^ Ids hrcasl ; 

And as IIk^ masons \vi"()iii;ld, I j)ray<'d 
'I'Ik^ licar(. hciu'alli iniijjld- lio at I'osl. 

h\)i', liirii il as I will, a- doul>l, 

Thai i;-i-icv(^H (he spirit, liauids my licad, 
Lest, ha|>l\', ihls indecent ront 

hishirhs (lie slundxT ol" my dead. 

Vov T wonld luivo no harslier iioiso 
'i'han oi-asses rusdini;" in (hc^ hi-eezo, 

Or li((le lurds (hai sin<;- (heii- Joys 
Amongst (ho many-nested trees; 



Ol' the slow river's lidlinj;- sonnd, 
Or the low l)i|>ini;- oC tlu^ wind, 

To hreatiie a drowsy soni;' around 
TIk^ couch wher(M>n lie lies i-eclined. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 01 

A sound tliat tliroiigli the senses steals, 
And partly breaks their quiet decj), 

Till a hall' consciousness reveals 
The very blessedness of sleep. 

And nature, more than kind to mo, 
Has calmed her voice to my desire ; 

She gently sighs through hei-b and tree, 
And sinks the pitch-note of her choir. 

And I, myself, who, in the hush 

Of serious evening, grieve and moan 

Beside his grave, without a blush. 
Have felt my numhood di'op its tone. 

All things assuage my troubles sore. 

And strive to make my sorrow light ; — 

Only these fierce hj'cnas roar 
Above him in the coward night. 



92 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XLIl. 

If sorroAv is love's fruit, and love 
A tinted blossom of the morn, 

That drops ere noontide from above, 
A wreck for man's maturer scorn ; 

If man should leave the flower for maids 
To twine amongst their. wanton hair, 

And bear the bitter fruit to shades 
Of lonely philosophic care; 

If icy wisdom is life's prize, 

And love an artificial want, 
I fear the frozen brains, thus wise, 

Are in their wisdom ignorant. 

From point to point they slowly climb, 
And time outruns their tardy pace ; 

But Love, that mocks the foot of Time, 
Bears revelation in his face. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 93 

A revelation somewhat dashed 

With clouds of doubt, but partly riven, 

As though God suddenly had flashed 
His presence on us out of heaven. 

Yet filled with yearnings vague and vast, 
That beckon from the top of things, 

With longings for some glory past, 

With consciousness of growing wings ; 

With sense of sometliing overhead. 

That glimmers through this dusty strife, 

And shines victorious on the dead. 
Above the darkened vale of life. 

Towards that the spirit pants to move, 
On that Faith turns her patient eyes; 

And this aspiring heat of love 

Strikes blind the wisdom of the Avise. 

It is an awful truth revealed, 

Which only Love can bear to see, — 

God's dateless charter, signed and sealed, 
That warrants immortality. 



94 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XLIIL 

The dreary morning of my woe 
Has slowly crept to light again : 

Cold winter day, arrayed in snow, 

And stripped of flowers and waving grain! 

Tiic land is dumb and stilV and grim, 
And wrinkled o'er with frosty rifts; 

Throngh heaven the hurrying vapors skim. 
On earth the hissing snow-storm drii'ts. 

Tiie naked branches of the wood 
Are shivering in the ashen liglit; 

A seal is hiid upon the flood ; 

The evergreens are piled with white. 

No cattle browse, no small bird sings, 
No motion breaks the dismal sleep. 

Save where yon roaring torrent flings 
Its icy burdens down the steCp. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 95 

Love knows no season : forth I go, 

Upon my holy mission bent, 
And on thy grave the fair white snow 

Seems nature's clotii of sacrament. 

I kneel, and with me kneels the dead ; 

The bread is broken, the w^ine is poured ; 
We eat and drink Avith lEim who bled 

To join our souls, with Christ our Lord. 



96 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XLIY. 

If mere existence be Love's scoi^e, 
And earth his brief and petty scene, 

I cry, from scorn of cheated hope, 
'Twere better Love had never been ! 

Why should man toil, by slow degrees. 
To fit his soul for things divine. 

While Pan is peering through the trees, 
And Bacchus pours his reeling wine? 

Hope, born of Love, in grief replies, 

" Why draw in trouble with thy breath ? 

When Adam woke in Paradise, 

What knew he of predestined death? 

"He ate and knew, he sinned and fell. 
He saw his blood upon the sod : 

Death's woful tale were jot to tell. 
Had he been faithful to his God. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 97 

"When love arose within thy soul, 
My cheering whisper said to thee, 

'Stars wax and Avane, but this shall roll 
Its orbit round eternity.' 

"Why doubt and fear? Take love on trust, 
Nor charge thy title with a flaw; 

No special grace requires thy dust 
Beyond the universal law. 

" The promises I made were clear. 

They cannot pass, they keep their worth. 

You say, 'Fulfilment draws not near:' 
They shall not be fulfilled on earth. 

" You stand beneath the darkened porch. 
And quarrel with the builder's plan ; 

Anon, I'll rise, and light a torch, 
And show the true abode of man. 



"What thing on changing earth can stand? 

What work of human hands shall last? 

You draw a picture on the sand. 

Then shriek at eveiy wave and blast. 
a 9 . 



98 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

"Love dwells within the heart of heaven; 

Creating light, he light preserves ; 
Such glimpses as to man are given 

Are more than faithless man deserves. 

"Despair not, though Fear cries, dismayed, 
'Death throws a shadow far and wide.' 

Whatever casts on earth a shade. 

Looks brighter on its heavenward side. 

" Though to thy senses Death may be 
A grisly phantom of the night, 

We call him, in eternity. 

An angel of transcendent light. 

"No higher instinct of the soul 

Bears fruit on earth ; it blossoms there ; 

It strives to burst from time's control ; 
It seeks an outlet everywhere. 

" These aspirations are not vain ; 

The callow eaglet beats his wing; 
The nestling lark begins the strain 

That he in highest heaven shall sing. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 99 

"So far from Death defeating Love, 

Death saves him from this earthly strife, 

Till through his native realm he move, 
The spirit's strength, the spirit's life. 

" Be true to Love, and Love for thee 
Shall bear at last his perfect fruit; 

As well doubt immortality 

As doubt its highest attribute." 



100 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XLY. 

These wild, unquiet thoiiglits that rove 
From land to land, yet find no rest, 

Tliat brood amongst the clouds above. 
Or skim the billow's foaming crest ; 

That wander w^ith the vagrant bee. 
Rolling in joy from flower to flower. 

Or, eagle-like, stand silently 

On crags that front the sunset-hour; 

That enter in the ghastly tomb, 

And grope amongst the clammy dead, 

Or take the soul's enfranchised plume. 
And circle towards its fountain-head ; 

That struggle through the greedy crowd, 
With hand of guilt and heart of steel. 

Or, with repentant anguish bowed. 
Fall prone where sinners only kneel: 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. IQl 

Whence come these thoughts ? Are they inborn ? 

Am I possessed by heaven or hell? 
Am I more fit for praise or scorn ? 

I wonder much ; I cannot tell. 



9* 



102 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XLYI. 

Blow gentl}-, soutliern breezes, blow 
Around the circle of this tomb! 

Blow down the locust's luiuging snow, 
And blow the roses into bloom ! 

Come from th}^ golden realm of day, 
With spices fresh upon thy lips, 

And breathe across the new-mo\vn hay 
And thymo that with the dew-drop drips! 

Glide softly, rippling river, glide, 
And hither all thy music send! 

Through beds of sedge and lilies slide, 
And slender reeds that rise and bend! 

Commingle with thy mellow voice 

The springs that gurgle from the ground, 

And make thy cataract rejoice 

In the full splendor of his bound ! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 103 

Liiy kindly, o-oi-geous sunset, lay 
Upon this tomb tli}^ rarest (\y(i^, 

And with the showery vapors play, 
And arch thy rainbow in the skies! 

And ere thy fiery race be run, 

And thou in sombre clouds must fall. 

Gather thy sinking rays in one, 
And flash a glor}^ over all ! 

Sing lower, moody poet, sing, 
Or let thy song in silence die; 

Thy sorrow is a jarring string 
In nature's grander harmony ! 

In reverential worship crave 
Forgiveness for a vain despair! 

God listens now ; and this lone grave 
Is, as an altar, set for prayer! 



104 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XLVII. 

Standing upon this grave, I view 
The world with my anointed eyes. 

The}^ pass along, a motley crew. 

The people, with their works and cries. 

Through man}^ a mazy path they run, — 
They join, they cross, they part, they meet 

Viui all their ways converge to one. 
That ends beneath my very feet. 

The weariest struggler hero shall rest, 
The fiercest cry here gasp for breath ; 

The bondman with his lord may jest 
In this old commonwealth of death. 

So high my dizzy stand is fixed, 

I Cannot judge men's deeds aright; 
They seem in vain confusion mixed, 



Mere motion, indistinct to sight. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 105 

For if yon cmnict hoards or spends, 
Or tliis one nieuns to buy or sell, 

Or what that other's act intends, 
Is more than I can truly telL 

Or if that be a sad pai*ade 

Of mourners following the dead, 

Or warriors, armed with spear and blade. — 
Yon pygmies winding down a thread. 

But this I know : a million strands. 
Converging to this central place, 

Some spider wove, and all the bands 
Climb here, with pallor in the face. 

Each by his separate thread ascends, 

As partial fortune may allot; 
But each, with empty hands, here ends, 

And in his season is forgot. 



106 TlTb: BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XLVIIT. 

Hefoke tlic seonifiil fiicc of death, " 
IFow small and piir])()scles8 appear 

The works that cost us pan ting breath, 
And caught the world's ai)plaudiug cheer! 

The uuvn I loved toiled out his (hiy, 
Jlis ])laus lie laid, his aims he won; 

lie saw, before he passed away, 
Ilis fruitage rouuding in the sun. 

What though liis enemies despise 

The ended story of his cares? 
I doubt not his seraphic eyes 

Now scorn the hibor more than theirs. 

To the I'reed intellect, whose stand 

And outlook is eternity, 
These twinkling worlds are grains of sand 

That tumble in an airy sea: 



rilK BOOK OF TIIK DEAD. 107 

The finite senses' highest fliglit, 

Merc iis])ir;iti()n after good, — 
A blind man reaehing lor the liglit 

lie feels, but never understood. 

And he, perehiincc, stands side by side, 
And smiles uj)on the deeds he <lid, 

Witii liiin wlio, in a kindred ])ride, 
]]uilt the sky-cleaving pyramid. 

For what are eartldy ills and Joj-r, 

Before the soul's eternal gaze. 
If not remembered as the toys 

She played with in her childish da^^s? 

What aim of man is high' or low. 
What perishes, or what survives, 

In the great shock and overflow 
That levels all our tem])oral lives? 

Wo worms spin less or greater cells, 
AVe fashion Avebs in winch to die; 

What are the reptile's empty shells 
Unto the air-borne butterfly? 



108 TlIK BOOK OF TIIK DEAD. 

A j)urp()so runs (lir()u«;lu)ut the ])]:in ; 

I doubt il. not; llioui;-!! I but sou, 
In wlitit wo cnll (ho Hlb of num, 

The i;;iinbols ol' liis infancy ; 

A childish olVoil, to nciiiovo, 

A mockiiiL!; ]>hiy with straw and sand, 
AVhich all tho fVijj,htono(l children loavo, 

h\)ri;-ot in sloo]), at death's command. 

For if wo dwell in ])oaco or strife, 
Or Ibund a throne, or sin*;' a lay. 

Is little in the comini;- life, 
So we but worship and obey. 



TIIK BOOK OF THE DEAD. ]()!) 



.XLIX. 

1, Foil iny purl, would nillicr Uvav 
The tropliios from AchilloH' liciul, 

And KulVcr in tlic \vi'a(li 1 dure, 

^riKiii niiso my arm n^'uiimt the dciid. 

The dead arc CJod's ; Ills awl'ul liandn 
IkcsI on them; waving Hvvord.s arise 

Above them, like the fiery brandw 
Before the gates of Paradise. 

'Tis hard to brave (iod's wakened wrath; 

It never sleej)H, it never tires; 
It hangs al)Ove its victim's ])ath, 

It bursts beneath his leel in fires. 

]5ehold it in the lightning's glow, 

And hear it in tiic thundej''s roar, 

And in the hungry waves that sow 

Wilh helpless wre(^ks the ci'und)ling shore I 
10 



110 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

It walks with pestilence by nigbt, 
It shapes the chances of the day, 

And when the sky is fair and bright, 
It darts from heaven a Avithering ray. 

It guides the reinless avalanche, 
It bursts the river's ancient bound, 

And makes the boldest visage blanch 
With shudders of the yawning ground. 

It lies in ambush everywhere, 
It joins with folly in the dance. 

Mirth's freshest wreath its temples bear, 
It wakes the light of beauty's glance. 

Its age no sum of years can tell ; 

It tracks the soul beyond the clay, 
It lights the lurid fires of hell, — 

It sings forever in this lay! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. \\\ 



L. 



What special baseness, of our kind 
Can seize \\\)0\^ tlic scheming bead, 

Tliat turns its vile, irreverent mind 
To conflict witb the harmless dead ? 

The monster who will raise his hand 
To strike a child or woman low, 

Scars on his front the coward's brand ; — 
"What 's he who strikes the dead a blow? 

I have sounded all the foulest things 
Within the foulest human hearts, 

Yet nowhere can I find the springs 
From which so base a motive starts. 

The seven deadly sins 1 shook, 

Until their damned adherents Availed, 

Yet found no face that did not look 
Upon the grave with eyelids veiled. 



112 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Even common Avarice I wrunir: 
He spoke not; miserably be smiled, 

And from bis burdened bosom flung 
A loatbed and degenerate cbild. 

I knew tbe borror not by name; 

My bair arose, my blood ran cold ; 
He called it, witb a blusb of sbamc. 

His bastard son, " mere Lust of Gold." 

I traced it on from spot to spot, 
I marked its way by slimy streania, 

Till, like Eve's toad, I saw it squat 

At ni}^ rogues' ears, to sbape tbeir dreams. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 113 



LI. 



The bcef-fiiccd brute who leads tliis band, 
And serves as mouth-piece for the crew, 

I pity; for I understand 

Ills school-days were but brief and few. 

I'll take him as 1 find him then, 

Eude, coarse, ill-mannered, vulgar, blunt; 

Expecting nothing from the pen 

But the swine's voice, a simple grunt. 

Grace and indidgence shall be his: 
lie cannot speak without abuse 

Of something, though that something is, 
Chiefly, the language which wo use. 



10* 



114 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LII. 



To-day I faced my enemies ; 

In smootli-tongued converse, veiling hate, 
We talked with hypocritic ease, 

And brought our business in debate. 

And all the time, the knave, who stung 

The heart that w^armed him, snake-like stirred; 

And all the time, their leader's tongue 
Slaughtered the English word by w^ord. 

And round about me winked and leered 
The common herd ; and, one and all, 

Piled lie on lie until I feared 

The Lord, j^erforce, might hear them bawl. — 

Until, in wonder and alarm, 
I gazed on traitor, rogue and clowm, 

Expecting God's avenging arm. 

Each moment, would come flashing down ; 



TJllC BOOK OF TIIPJ Die AD. 115 

And they, wlio hartci-ed in tlio street 
Ilis priceless trutii for Ireaelierous gold, 

Wonld fall death-stricken at my feet, 
As Ananias fell of old. 

One fool, lob-sided and bare-hrovved, 
Mindless of home, in spitefnl .i!;lee, 

Of gibbctinii; my name talked lond, 

As thonii^'h he shared the haiii^man's fee. 

One blustered, swaggered, stam])ed, and swore, 
Till conscience was l)y rage beguiled; 

And one, wdiose hair was silvered o'er, 
Babbled, unnoticed, lik'c a child. 

But all the while the subtler cur, 

Whose bark liad harried on the pack, 

Was out of sight : such things prefer 
To stab one's honor in the back. 

So each, according to his k'ind, 

Wriggled, and licked his cloven tongue, 

And lied, as fancy led his mind. 
And round about his venom flung; 



IIG THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

And I, amidst this reptile throng, — 
Giants in fraud, but dwarfs in wit, 

Stood calmly, and composed a song, 
Like Eagner in the serpents' pit. 



TlIK BOOK OF Till': DEAD. 117 



J. III. 
I CANNOT puss tllilt (lirCHllold o'oi* 

Without a niiikinij;" of tlio soul ; 
A spectre luiuuts tlie opcu door, 

And round tlio vvidls low luuruuirs roll. 

A voice seems culling IVoni within, 

That should not speak on earth again; 

The voice sounds ghostly faint and thin, 
Ihil, O my soul! how strangely plain! 

It cries for vengeance at my hand, 
It dooms me to this task forlorn, 

It drives me on as with a hrand, 
It sneers my weakness into scorn. 

The lio))eless fate of ancient (rreeco, 
^"'hat ground resistance into dust, 

Ladens that mandate, and I cease 
To struggle, and am onward thrust. 



118 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

I do my part. The place is cursed 

Beyond man's praj'crs ; the curse must fall ; 

A desecrated grave has burst, 
And poured its darkness over all. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 119 



JAY. 



Why sorrow for the hopeless past, 

Or strive again to re-create 
That shattered mould, in which were cast 

The hardened features of our fate? 



I know not; but my soul rebels 

Against the tyranny of time, 
Fights inch by inch, and dearly sells 

The freedom of her native clime. 

Chained, scourged, oppressed and overthrown, 
Defiance fires her quenchless breath ; 

She spurns the conqueror on his throne, 
And dares him to the test of death. 

She will not yield the past as gone ; 

She stretches back her yearning eyes ; 
She counts her memories one by one, 

And calls them all realities. 



120 



Till': nooK or 'I'lir: nrin. 



licyoiid llui i;iiirs of dcalli expand 

(ircai \isioiis, and mIic lorwai'd H|)riiii;-; 

\v{, will noli l()»)S(i lirr clini^in;.;- hand 
l^'roni il.s laHt. Iiold on (^ai'lldy (liini'S. 



Tiine (lowci-M hi^ioro \\ci' dannllcss jrc^ad ; 

Sli(^ H\V('<'|>s inio (d(M-nil.y, 
Willi lu'i- ininiorlal \vin!;M onls|>i"('a(l, 

Ti'ailin;'- lici* w lioiii j-rand lii.sloi-\'. 



77/A' HOOK OF Till': DEAD. 



121 



I.V 



\v lo l.lui soul, ns to llu'- senses, 

Tlic, |»um(> wcu'o cjincc'llod, Jiiid no moi'c, 

AikI (liirt (liviiic- iii(,(illi;^cMic(; 

'I\) iiiorhil wcalciicsH rciKlcrcd o'or; 

Ho Uiiil I lie Koiil, I'oi' (toimtlcHH ycai'H, 
MuHt hIuikI itriiid Mic liojivciily IiohI, 

And Hi'x'.^ Mii-()ii;^li lull' d(;H)):iii'iii<i; Uiju'M, 
'V\\c, piisl; in'cvoc.'iltly IohI; 

I would \)('.\iv my iiutuortidil y 

Willi HoiiK'-t liinii; like. (Mjiili^iiii)!, and lid 
A ])i"iiycr to dcalli lo kcI nic; IViH? 

Proiii Hindi ji j)oor, iinjxjrrcct gill. 



'I'o find (!lci'nily unfold 

A Hliall(!r(Ml jind disjoinlcMl ring, 

Jn wlii(di linu5 loi'ds il an of old, 

Wore; lo llic ,soul a Horry lliing. 
1 1 



122 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Our asjiirations were undone, 
Our hopes an overshot mistake, 

If past and future, merged in one, 
Be not the life to which we wake. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 123 



LYI. 

Eternal God, before Thy face 

How nature and Thy creature, man. 

Shrink their proportions! time and space 
Contract, and narrow to a span ! 

What is man's life within Thy sight?— 
The moment that we climbers stand 

Toppling upon a dizzy height. 

With yawning death on every hand. 

We vaunt the knowledge gained by sense, 
We bound creation with our pride. 

Forgetting, in our ignorance. 

That what reflects must also hide. 

Our mirror shows a glorious sight : 

A re-created world we find 
Within ourselves; its forms delight; 

We ask not what may be behind. 



124 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

And man, the vtiin, jircsuming fool, 
Who measures all by time and space, 

Picks lip his little ell-wand rule. 
And gravely marks a planet's place. 

And 3^et why will the soul assail. 
With anxious, stubborn questionings, 

The secret of this polished veil, 
And beat it with her fiery wings ? 

Until the glass, in which we see 

The world so fair, be ground to dust. 

The greater sight and mystery 
Is hidden, and received on trust. 

Lord, break down this blinding bar, 

1 
And let my struggling spirit pass 

Beyond the orbit of the star 

Just glimmering through the optic glass 

1 pine for knowledge unperceived, 
I doubt the evidence of sense; 

I trust the truth w\\\ be achieved 
When, in the soul, I journey hence ! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 125 



LYII. 

One counsels me to drop 1113^ scourge, 
To live at pence, iind strive to please : 

Not for the rogues' sakes would he urge 
His plea, but for my private ease. 

If with myself my duty stopped, 
And the commission of my God 

Were cancelled, long ere this I had dropped 
To nothing in my kindred clod. 

The first faint stir of human pain 
Had left with me no after-smart, 

Could I have rent my aching brain. 

Or probed with steel my sorrowing heart. 

I scorn the soul that never felt 

A blow to shake its stolid ease: 

Itself it knows not. Death, soon dealt, 

Were more than life on terms like these. 
11* 



126 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LYIII. 

If good and evil are but one, 

Or to one end and issue made, 
And that effulgent central sun, 

That makes the brightness, casts the shade ; 

If our deluded moral sight. 

The brightness seals, the darkness blinds. 
And all the lines 'twixt wrong and right 

Are vain confusions of our minds; 

If we who hurry Sin aside. 

And set him on a throne abhorred. 

Make, in our intellectual pride, 
A power almost above the Lord; 

If what Omnipotence permits. 

He forms and sanctions and sustains. 

And smiles to see our stretching wits 
Defining that which He ordains; 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 127 

If this faith-strangling creed be true, 
Through all its tangled subtilties, 

We have but followed out the clue 
Where lead our new philosophies. 

Rather for me the brimstone bed, 

The satyr devil of the child, 
Or those rude horrors that o'erspread 

Men's fancies when our creed was wild. 

Sin is God's sorrow; and the soul 
That never feels the inward strife, 

As hell and heaven together roll. 
Has never lived the spirit's life. 

Give me, O God, the agony, 

The war with evil, up and down ! 

Give me Thy tearful sympathy. 

The triumph, and the shining crown ! 



128 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LIX. 

Long golden days and mellow nights 
Have lit and dimmed this earthly scene, 

The trees have bloomed in reds and whites, 
And now again are tawny green, 

Since, in the glooming winter snow, 
I laid thee from the world apart, 

And felt the chilly season flow 
Inward upon my shrinking heart. 

Long summer-days may come and go. 

In sunshine or in silver rain, 
The scented flowers may bud and blow. 

The fields may sprout in fruitful grain ; 

Yet in the fiercest blaze of day, 

When all the panting world stands still, 

One thought will wrap the whole in gray. 
And strike me with that wintry chill. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 129 



LX. 

Js grief a wetikness of the mind, 
A useless, discontented strain 

Against the galling links that bind 
Our lives in fate's remorseless chain ? 

Does God, with hard, averted ear, 
Refuse to hear His children cry? 

Does every sob and sliding tear 

Draw down the brow upon His eye ? 

If this be so, in vain you say. 
He in His image fashioned me. 

And breathed within my sentient clay 
His fervent immortality. 

I reason back from man to God, 

With God's own warrant for my creed. 

And delving in the dusty clod, 
I find at last the primal seed : 



130 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

And cry, thrift every throb of pain, 
The present and the after-smart, 

Is echoed o'er and o'er again 

In God's vast, semi-human heart. 

I keep this faith, to hearten dread, 
That every tear of king or churl. 

In pure and honest sorrow shed, 

Shines ni God's crown a lucid pearl. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 131 



LXI. 

My cries of wrath arc fitful cries ; 

As an attack of sharper pain 
That, in a lingering illness, tries 

The frame, then passes off again, 

Is this possession of my hate, 

That intermits but still returns ; 
Now drives me flaming towards my fate, 

Now smoulders, but, though smouldering, burns. 

And, sometimes, while my fancies play 

Amongst the vapors of my fire, 
I cast my knotted scourge away. 

And rest the culprits from my ire. 

I only rest : anon my lash 

Shall fall more sternly than before, 

And measured melody shall dash 
Its waves into a savage roar. 



132 TJIE BOOK OF tup: DEAD. 



I. XII. 

I SAT witli men ; few words were said ; 

Of ])regMiint tliiiii^s we mused iind talked, 
AVIien he, who had betrayed the dead. 

In through the doorway shambling walked. 

He stooped beneath his load of sin, 

The Atlas of a world of lies; 
His wrinkled and cadaverous skin 

Hung trembling o'er his toad-like eyes. 

The chase of gold had worn him lank, 
And dried his blood, and pinched his face; 

Our common manhood downward shrank 
Within him, at its own disgrace. 

This wretch who dared not spealc the truth. 
With God to back him, seemed so vile. 

That anger softened into ruth, 
And tried to giv^e a sickly smile. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 133 

I almost stretched a helping hand, 
To raise him amongst men again ; 

But started, for I saw his brand, — 
The long-foro-otten brand of Cain ! 



12 



134 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXIIl. 

What cuts thco from thy follow-wrctcli, 

And, in the press of busy clay, 
flakes gaps of solitude to stretch 

About thee in the peo})led way ? 

I never saw thee, arm in arm, 

( ■omi)anioned by a brother Icnave, 

Phmning some scheme of fraud or barm, 
Such as thy coward heart might brave. 

Men talk, with an averted face. 

Of gold to thee, and there they end; 

There is no outcast to abase 

Himself by calling thee his friend. 

Cold serpent, never on thy head 

Had woman's eye one glance to iling; 

She shrank, with an instinctive dread. 

That saved her from thv treacherous stini!*- 



THE BOOK OF TllK DKAD. ]35 

Art thou solf'-coiiscioiis tluit ibr thco 
No kindi'cd heart Bhiill ever Hwell, 

That to tliy ineiuuieHS there kIkiII he 
(yOinj)anionHhip, — no, not in hcill? 



136 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD, 



LXIV. 

I WATCHED at eve beside thy tonibj 

With something like a pang of shame ; 

For snails had crawled from out the gloom, 
And dragged their tracks across thy name. 

Across thy sacred name I saw 

The foul defacers' oozing slime ; 
And marvelled at the higher law 

That made such sacrilege no crime. 

The worms were fled, the tomb defiled ; 

In vain my wrath ; I could but weep. 
Then knelt I down, and, as a child, 

I faintly prayed myself to sleep. 

Dawn broke at length ; I raised my head ; 

The desecrating stains had flown ; 
And on the tablet of the dead 

Some hand had laid a lily down. 



THE BOOK OF TJIE DEAD. 137 



LXV. 

Arcfi tniitor, in thy restless bed, 
I wonder- oft if thou dost see 

The warning plmntoni of the dead 
Appear, and hover over thee. 

If in the hush of middle night, 
He comes, a shape of ghastly fear, 

And blasts thy vain-averted sight. 
And whispers in thy tingling ear. 

Beneath his touch how creeps thy skin, 
How stirs to life thy matted hair, 

How chilly and how deadly thin 

Thy blood crawls backward to its lair! 

What says he then? Does he arraign 

Thy baseness and thy lust for gold ; 

Or stab thee, o'er and o'er again, 

With kindness, as he did of old? 
12* 



138 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Doubtless, thou hast thy own defence, 

Some self-deluding lie to tell, 
Some poor excuse, to recompense 

The tortures of thy inward hell. 

Can that avail, when sleep has stripped 
The conscience of deceiving flesh, 

And memory has open ripped 

Her wounds, that ache and bleed afresh ? 

I cannot say. I see thee lie 

Beneath his gaze; around thee yawn 

Great gulfs of darkness; and a cry 
Goes struggling upward for the dawn. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 139 



to? 



LXYI. 

If all this passion run to waste, 
And leave no seed upon the land, 

And scornful men pass by in haste 
The painful culture of my band ; 

And like some monstrous natural thing; 

That leaves no kindred progeny. 
The wild, disordered songs I sing 

Lapse into mere nonentity; — 

'Tvvere vain and false denial then. 
To laugh, and innocently say. 

More harm is in the piping wren 
Than in my ballads' whole array. 

My bitter song is not unheard ; 

The thoughtful angels listening sit ; 
I tremble on from word to word ; 

For shall I not be judged by it ? 



140 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXVII. 

I DO not draw for man alone 
This magic web of woven air; 

1 think one soul, that hence is tlown, 
Is wistful how his loved ones fare. 

I fear that all my tears and sighs 
Disturb his clear immortal day ; 

So I abase my running eyes, 
And sigh as softly as I may. 

And since I know he loathes a wrong, 
Whene'er I touch my scornful strings, 

I mean that he shall hear my song. 
And peal it till the welkin rings. 

Yet not to pierce his heavenly ear 
With the cruel edge of human woe, 

I deck it out in minstrel's gear. 
And move to music sad and low. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 141 

I little care what brow is bent 

Against my purpose. Men may fill 

The land with sneers at my intent, 
So he impute to me no ill. 

The laugh, the jeer, the look of scorn, 
Are naught to me ; they pass me by, 

As the light fleecy cloud that is borne 
A moment through an April sky. 

A moment, and the frown is fled. 

The mouth is dumb, the scoffer gone ; 

AVhile through the world a song has sped, 
And in immortal youth lives on. 



142 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXYIII. 

If I were well assured of this, 

That what I write shall never die, 

I would fold my hands in dreamy bliss, 
And down to death would calmly lie. 

For I am haunted by a doubt 
That some unworthiness of mine. 

Or of my song, may blot me out. 
And raze my record line hj line. 

Kot the pure heart, the pure design, 

The mind's high sanction, nor the might 

Of conscious power that, strong as wine. 
Befools my judgment as I write ; 

Nor all the loud and frothing stuff 
Of windy rhetoric, wrung to rhyme. 

Have in their substance salt enough 
To save a verse from gnawing time. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 143 

Beyond all Ibis, above it all, 

Some subtile essence, undefined, 
Keeps fresb the songs tbat rise and fall 

In surges through the common mind. 

I can but lay on God that fear ; 

And trust that, in some low degree, 
Far in the poets' shining rear, 

The after-times may think of me. 



144 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXIX. 

Bear Lord, to Thee I cry aloud 1 

My task is greater than my strength ] 

My spirit fails, my knees are bowed, 
I sink beneath my load at length ! 

Thus far I struggled, and thus far 
Mere human courage bore me on : 

I followed forth a setting star; 

The guide is lost, the star is gone! 

O feet tliat toiled up Calvary, 

O brow that bore the bloody crown, 

O mortal God, I call on Thee, 

Bruised by the world and trampled down 

I, clinging to Thy cross, invoke 
Thy pity on a sinner's prayer 1 

Grrant me a respite fi^om this yoke- 
Destruction, rather than despair! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 145 

My race is run if here I fail, 

And all my panting labor vain ; — 

Tear Thy pierced fingers from the nail, 
And touch me into life again ! 



18 



146 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXX. 

I, WANDERING by this bitter shore 

Of death and sorrow, sometimes turn 

My vision inward, and explore 
Myself, the more myself to learn. 

What shock of chance has rent this breaeli 
'Twixt nature and my ranging eyes, 

And made her visions dumb to teach, 
And hushed her starry harmonies? 

Where has the silver lily birth ? 

Where winks the early violet? 
In what fair corner of the earth 

Shines morn on meadows dewy-wet? 

Where do the linked seasons run 

Their m^^stic dance through cold and heat? 
Where flash the swallows in the sun? 

Where sing the robins, full and sweet? 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. U7 

"What stills the cataract's shout of streiiirth : 
The chorus of the chanting waves, 

That hurl their Titan bulks at length 
On beaches and through sounding caves? 

Where is the pageant of the night, 

The burnished shield of dauntless Mars, 

Soft Yenus with her liquid light, 
And all the congregated stars ? 

Where is the sense that, through the whole, 
Caught glimpses of the inner truth. 

And whispered somewhat to my soul? — 
Where is the glory of my youth? 

Dead nature haunts me like a ghost, — 

A hollow shell of broken laws; 
But this appalls my spirit most, — 

I cannot be the man I w^as. 



148 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXI. 

What man shall set bis hardened brow 
Against the cause that I maintain ? 

Or, looking in God's face, avow 
He holds my motives in disdain ? 

Above m^^self 1 strive to move, 

Earth tempts not my determined flight; 
The holy frenzy of my love 

Aspires to touch the central light. 

What power of earth shall turn aside 
A zealot from his single aim ? 

What human courage shall abide 
The will that no reverse can tame? 

The meanest thing that crawls the sod 
May be the link on which depends 

The grandest providence of God, 
And wonderfully work out its ends. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 149 

I give my bod}^ to the dust; 

I wing my spirit to the sky; 
I bhndly grasp the hand I trust, 

And follow, never asking why. 

God's purpose is above my mind : 
O'er dubious ways I hold it fast; 

And trust He mercifully will find 
Some refuge for. my soul at last. 



13* 



150 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXII. 

'I'liKOiKiii llic (lark ]^jitli, o'er wliicli I tread, 

Omo voice in ever al my ear, 
One imiflled form descrU the dead, 

And haunts my presence far and near. 

in times oC douhl, lie wlnsjx^-s trust; 

In dann-ei-j dr()])S a warnini;' woi'd ; 
And when I waver iVom tlie just, 

ITis low, C()m])hunino- Hiii;li is lieard. 

Jle I'ollows me, with patient tread, 
From daybreak until cvonini^'s close ; 

He bends beside me, head by head, 
To scent the violet or the rose. 

And shariui^ thus my smallest deed. 
When all the works of day arc past, 

And sleep becomes a blessed need, 
lie lies against my heart at last. 



77//'; BOOK OF THE DEAD. 151 

Dear ghost, 1 feel no dread of thee; 

A gracious comrade thou art grown j 
Be near me, clieer, bend over me. 

When tlie long sleep is settling down ! 



152 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXIII. 

I FOUGHT with spectres in the night ; — 

I, sinful, feeble, faltering, lone, 
With all hell's legions in my sight. 

Strove on, with cry, and sob, and groan. 

Vague, shapeless things, of fear and doubt, 
Assailed my soul ; with sudden start, 

Temptations stretched their fingers out. 
And almost touched me on the heart. 

Alive with evil nature seemed ; 

She spawned and hatched my myriad foes; 
Hell from the lily's centre gleamed, 

And fumed its vapors from the rose. 

Earth's surface crawled with loathsome life; 

The streams ran blood; the very grass 
Grew into snakes, and endless strife 

"Writhed through the foul, abounding mass. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 153 

The rocks and trees took features on, 
And stared dumb horrors in my face ; 

Like sheeted ghosts the clouds were drawn, 
Great, mournful shapes, in endless chase. 

And through the whole, a wretched tone, 
That killed the spirit in my breast, 

Ran on forever, — a low moan 

That never, never hoped for rest. 

It sighed o'er life, it sighed o'er death, 

It found no comfort anywhere. 
Save in the self-afl9icting breath 

Of its own desolate despair. 

I found a voice: I shrieked aloud 
To him I love, my dearest dead : 

Dawn smote the farthest eastern cloud 
With a low streak of dusky red. 

He glimmered from a rising star; 

His face was pitiful and mild. 
Dawn grew; the phantoms fled afar; 

He looked upon my face, and smiled. 



154 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXIV. 

"Were beauty neai'cr the divine 

Than beauty is, its power were vain 

To move this steadfast heart of mine 
Beyond the line of faint disdain. 

Who wins my heart, must find the way 
A purer love has _<>;randly trod, — 

Must track it towards the fount of day, 
Sheer upward to the feet of God. 

O loving heart, serenely bold, 

The way is plain, but hard to tread ; 

It lies through regions, vast and cold. 
Between the living and the dead ! 

Come hither, at the twilight hour. 

Beneath this pine-tree's solemn gloom ! 

Pluck, as a spell, a grave-side flower. 
And I shall iireet thee from the tomb ! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 155 



LXXV. 

A SERVICE done to me is naught; 

The gauds aud trinkets of this world 
I hold as more than dearly bought 

When my contemptuous lip has curled. 

The purest fame that man achieves 
He wins himself, against our bent; 

Tiie grudged homage he receives 
Is but hard-wrung aclvnowledgment. 

The name that stands through envious time, 
Stands unsupported by the race — 

In man's despite — a power sublime 
That holds in awe the abject base. 

What were our Shakespeare's deathless fame, 
Dependent on man's jealous praise ? 

He moves before us, with God's claim 
To kinghood flashing from his bays. 



156 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

True greatness reigns by right divine, 
Within itself it keeps its state; 

With all the votive wreaths we twine, 
Ourselves we do but elevate. 

Praise is cold service. More than fiimc 
I prize the gift of human love ; 

And humbly tearful, at its name, 

Towards my race I trembling move. 

O fount of joy ! O well of tears ! 

I throw myself upon thy brink, — 
I, thirsty, famished, weak with fears, 

Eeel to thy singing waves, and drink! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 157 



LXXYI. 

Ye men of evil, yo who dare 

Assail the consecrated grave, 
And lay its awful mysteries bare, 

What imj^ious issue do you crave? 

Is this last fane, whose walls are hushed 
Against fierce Mammon's godless jar. 

This sanctuary, to be crushed. 
At length, beneath his golden car? 

Are ye not satisfied to see 
The wrecks of sanctity around,— 

Man's ftiith, man's love, life's poetry, 

Laid prostrate with the common ground ? 

Shall this sole refuge of a race 

That groans in bondage, self-imposed, 

Be made a public market-place, 

Where hucksters' stuffs shall be exposed 



158 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Beware ! you pull a temple down 
Whose shelter may one day be dear, 

AVhose silence you may pray to drown 
The curses howling in your ear. 

Before whose desecrated door 

You will crawl, with anguish and dismay, 
And pray God's mercy to restore 

The broken arch, and smooth the way; 

That you, j^ourselves, may enter in ; 

Less fearful of the hell to come. 
Than of the unrelenting din 

That drove you downward to the tomb. 

What if it be no refuge then? — 
If your misdeed be paid in kind? — 

And round your graves, forever, men 

Shall blow a storm of slanderous wind ? 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 159 



LXXYII. 

In hazy gold the hill-side sleeps, 
The distance fades within the mist, 

A cloud of lucid vapor creeps 
Along the lake's pale amethyst. 

The sun is but a blur of light, 
The sky in ashy gray is lost; 

But all the forest-trees are bright. 
Brushed by the pinions of the frost. 

I hear the clamor of the crow. 
The wild-duciis' far, discordant cry, 

As swiftly out of sight they go,' 
In wedges driving through the sky. 

I know the sunshine of this hour, 
Warm as the glow of early May, 

"Will never wake the dying flower, 
!Nor breathe a spirit through decay. 



160 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

The scarlet leaves arc doomed to fall, 
The lake shall stiffen at a breath, 

The crow shall ring his dreary call 
Above December's waste of death. 

And so, thou bird of southern flight, 
My soul is yearning for thy wings; 

I dread the thoughts that come to light 
In gazing on the death of things. 

Fain w^ould I spread an airy plume 

For lands where endless summers reign. 

And lose myself in tropic bloom, 
And never think of death again. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. IGl 



LXXYIIL 

Now thou art gone, in vain to me 

Is any stir of human praise; 
Such trophies as I won for thee, 

Lie in the shadow of my days. 

T see, with mehuicholy scorn, 

My bay- wreath falling, leaf by leaf ; 

It lies in ashes, soiled and torn, 

O'er-stained with tears of rage and grief. 

My lyre is hushed: the breezes, wake 
Its trembling strings to better cheer; 

My listless fingers onl}^ make 

A murmur in death's moody ear. 

Partly because some spirit strong 

Urged me to sing, I sang awhile ; 

But more than half my faulty song 

Was raised to draw thy partial smile. 
I 14* 



162 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Think as I will, I cannot bring 

My mind to deem thee far, nor strange 

This voice to thee ; and so I sing, — 
Only I sing to suit thy change. 

To thee it matters naught, to me 
But little, what my ballads' fate : 

They shall receive a smile from thee, 
Hereafter, in some happier state. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 1G3 



LXXIX. 

Great God, I cannot bear this thing! 

Shall his, the name T honored so. 
Hang out for every wasp to sting. 

And every carrion-fly to blow ? 

I held thee sacred here on earth ; 

Thy precept was my guiding light; 
How holy, how divine thy worth 

Shines on me from its starry height ! 

Dear Soul, within thy mortal clay 
Was nothing selfish, nothing small ; 

Shalt thou become the helpless prey 

Of the foul worms that o'er thee crawl? 

Thy name was carved in spotless white; 

So shone the record on thy death ; 
Shall skulking cowards of the night 

Defile it with their slanderous breath ? 



164 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Forbid it, God ! Thus humbly bowed, 
I cry for justice at Thy hand! 

Flash downward from a stoojiing cloud, 
And raze the liars from the land ! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 105 



LXXX. 

My soul is open to thy eye, 
Thou seest me simply as I am ; 

J^o sin can hide, or shuffle by 

Thy piercing vision clear and calm. 

1 know 'tis hard for mortal clay 
To bear, unawed, a light divine; 

Nor dare I confidently lay 

Eefore thee this frail heart of mine. 

The vilcness T, myself, perceive. 
Must magnify beneath the view 

That sees hell's total broadness cleave 
A gap between the false and true. 

In trembling I pursue my waj's; 

But surely I may trust that He, 
Who so enlarged thy mortal gaze, 

Enlarged thy mortal charity. 



166 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



Lxxxr. 

If this sole solace of my grief, 
This power to shape a dreary lay, 

Were silenced, and the blest relief 
Of thought in music reft away ; 

I would have burst in rhetoric bold. 
Such as shook Macedonia's king, 

Or poured the words, from lips of gold, 
At which false Catiline took wing; 

Or traced again, with fiery pen. 

The scorn that made Salmasius rave 

Before the mockery of men, 

And jeered him to his wretched grave. 

For, lacking utterance to my woo, 

I must have wanthed as one possessed. 

And tossed my wild arms to and fro. 
And rent my hair, and beat my breast. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 167 

Therefore thank God that in mild song 
He still permits mj^ pain to shroud ; 

And when I thunder o'er the throng, 
'Tis only from a golden cloud ! 



168 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXXII. 

Not pity, but a deeper sense 

Of something graver, stirs to birth. 

At every sight of grief intense 
That moves this melancholy earth. 

The vulgarest and meanest show 
Of sorrow is a sacred thing, 

That fills the chambers of my woe 
With flutterings of an angel's wing. 

I smile no more at pain absurd: 
A holy presence treads the ground 

Where'er its sobbing voice is heard. 
And I, — I tremble at the sound. 

No soul takes flight, but wings the way 
On which my own Beloved has flown 

I kneel, and with the mourners pray: 
I sec all sorrow through my own. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 109 



LXXXIII. 

Perhaps I make my grief too plain ; 

Perhaps the sharpness of its smart 
Strikes too directly on the brain, 

And fails to reach the deeper heart. 

Some things are clearer, barely caught 
In shadowy outlines, that suggest 

A feeling rather than a thought, 
Quick fancy filling up the rest. 

If I have erred through stress of truth, 
And made my picture's tones too high, 

Know that this vision of my youth 
Cut a clear line against the sky; 

And every light and shade I saw 

"Was terribly distinct to me : 

I am too dull to err by law ; 

I can but paint the thing I see. 
15 



170 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXXIY. 

What evidence lies round about 

The soul in its eternal jars 
With Doubt ? For, sometimes, prying Doubt 

Would thrust his fingers in the scars ; 

Count every nail-hole, touch the wound 
Made in the body; ere he heed 

The words of witnesses around, — 
"This is the very Lord indeed!" 

Facts keep our mounting faith in awe: 
Linked by stern sciences they sit, 

And rather lean upon the law 

Than on the hand that fashioned it. 

Small comfort comes from gathered weeds, 
Or sums of years, or cloven stones. 

Or all the dry material creeds 

That gather round the mammoth's bones. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 171 

The Soul, not blindly, but with eyes 

That search through darkness for the day, 

Looks round the circle of the skies 
From the dim windows of the clay. 

She sees a strange, uncertain light, — 
Perhaps the dawn of day to come; 

She questions Science, on her height. 
But the proud Sibyl's mouth is dumb. 

She can but loose her offspring, Doubt, 
Upon the Soul, to mend her cause. 

And haunt the spirit in and out, 
And prate of matter and its laws. 

Let Science, and her sceptic child. 

Walk humbly amongst earthly things; 

For all heaven's whiteness is defiled 
When beaten with her dusty wings. 

Give Science all that she perceives, 
Nor let her pride by that be blown ; 

For what the dullest soul believes 

Is more of worth than all that is known. 



172 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXXY. 

The ho^^es, on which our spirits live, 
Are now completed truths to thee ; 

Thy soul no longer can misgive 
The shaping of the last decree. 

The end of prophecy is thine, 

The law that lies in seeming chance. 

And all the tangled schemes we twine 
Are simple to thy single glance. 

The banded stars beneath thee spin ; 

They cannot hide their secret power; 
Thou know'st the mystery within 

The bloomino; of the earliest flower. 

From sphere to sphere thy soul ascends, 
Earth fades beneath her cleaving wings. 

Till, gathering all creation's ends. 

She broods above the crown of things. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 173 

Poised in thy grand eternity, 

I question thee, majestic Soul ; 
Has earth no more regard from thee 

Than as an atom of the whole? 

Or like a man who, daj'S and nights, 
Has travelled, and at length is come 

Above his city's myriad lights. 
And only sees the light of home, 

Art thou, thus gazing from afar? — 
And when thy clear perceptions part 

The mingled systems from one star, 
Comes there a tumult in thy heart? 



15* 



174 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXXYI. 

I MEET thee, sometimes, in the deep 
Of midnight, on that neutral ground, 

'Twixt life and death, which men call sleep 
We meet, and part, without a sound. 

God will not grant that, even in dreams, 
Thy voice shall gladden me again; 

So thy familiar presence seems 
Unreal, a phantom of my pain. 

I cannot lose the heavy thought 
That thou'st another life begun ; 

I feel our lives can ne'er be brought 
Again to mingle into one. 

So something strange invests thy mien. 
Dear Mockery; and I seem to grow, 

Myself, a phantom in the scene, — 
A silent portion of the show. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 175 

I speak not, for my words were vain : 

I see, u2)on thy changeless face, 
That no reply would come again ; 

I touch the limit of the grace. 

Oh ! grace unlimited ! 'Twere vile, 
If even my hungry heart asked more 

Than the warm sunshine of the smile 
That falls uj^on me as of yore. 

I know that look of love and trust, — 
That musing look of tender pride; 

'Tis more than when it lit thy dust; 
'Tis now sublimed, beatified. 

Yet a vague fear perplexes me : 

Beneath that smile, sincere and bland, 

Something upon thy face I see, — 
Something I cannot understand. 



17G THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXXYII. 

When my dead roses bloom once more, 
And these dark daisy-leaves with stars 

Of white are powdered o'er and o'er, 
And through yon rusty lattice-bars 

The jessamine thrusts its yellow tips, 
And the bright pansy pranks its head, 

And the tall lily's pallid lips 

Part slowly, and from green to red 

The beaded grapes begin to turn, 

And round the outskirts of the lawn 

The woodbine blossoms faintly burn, — 
Ah ! then, perhaps, on me may dawni 

The morning of a better day; 

And this sad heart its woful hue 
May reverently put away, 

And deck itself in something new. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. ]77 



LXXXVIII. 

When I am turned to mouldering dust, 
And all my ways are lost in night, 

When through me crocuses have thrust 
Their pointed blades, to find the light ; 

And caught by plant and grass and grain. 
My elements are made a part 

Of nature, and, through sun and rain, 
Swings in a flower my wayward heart; 

Some curious mind may haply ask, 

"Who penned this scrap of olden song? 

Paint us the man whose woful task 
Frowns in the public eye so long." 

I answer, truly as I can ; 

I hewed the wood, the water drew; 
I toiled along, a common man, — 

A man, in all things, like to you. 



178 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



LXXXIX. 

They tell me thou art far away, 
That all my cries to thee are vain, 

That I but rave above thy clay; 

Thou canst not hear my voice complain ; 

That heaven, in mercy to the dead. 

This cloudy cope o'er earth hath thrown ; 

Else were the blessed spirits fed 
On sorrows keener than our own. 

It may be so. I cast about 

For faith ; but never find its seeds 

In men who dole God's mercies out 
According to their narrow creeds. 

No man e'er saw a spirit's wing 
Outspread before his mortal eyes; 

But is man's sense the only thing 
On which his wiser soul relies ? 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 179 

Love's vision is a sense divine: 

I trust its truth, when I avow 
That, standing face to face with mine, 

A spirit fronts my sjiirit now. 



ISO THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



xc. 



I STOOD amidst an angiy throng, 

To jDlead, to question and to hear; 
Some scowled with predetermined wrong, 

Some lowered with greed, some paled with fear, 

My purpose grew before their eyes; 

Scorn filled me, as with potent wine; 
I felt the dead man's spirit rise, 

And stir a stronger life in mine. 

Then one who bore our common shape, 
One w^ho must some time fill a tomb, 

Sprang up, and tore hell's gates agape, 
And poured on earth its boding gloom. 

With flaming face, in words uncouth, 
A thousand frenzied things he said; 

Blasphemed the simple grace of truth. 
Outraged the living and the dead. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 181 

About mc, in the listening crowd, 

I saw full many smiling stand, 
Whose servile necks erewhile had bowed 

With favors at the dead man's hand. 

They dared not speak upon his part, 

Nor make truth's sacred cause their own; 

Only one brave and loyal heart, 
Who loved him for himself alone, 

Arose, and boldly faced the storm, 

And said the thing which he thought right: 
And as he spoke, methought, his form 

Grew radiant with supernal light ; 

And heaven's great portal open swung, 

And all the angels softly stole 
A little out, to hear his tongue 

Thus pleading for their fellow-soul: 

And ever since, this man of men 

Has walked before me glory-crowned ; 

A virtue flows into me when 

I touch his raiment from the ground. 
10 



182 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XCI. 

I TRUST in man. Not all are base; 

Not all are pricked by grasping self, 
To show the hollow double face 

That masks the shameful love of pelf. 

Fierce eyes have shone, bold tongues have hurled 

Defiance at my sordid foes ; 
And here and there, about the world, 

A tear has dropped upon my woes. 

And chiefly thou, so wholly pure 
In thought, in act, in spotless fame. 

Stern scorner of the golden lure. 

Whose soul is whiter than thy name; — 

I grasp thee with a brother's hands; 

I hold thee as the dearest prize. 
Bequeathed to me by him who stands 

No more before our sorrowing eyes. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 183 

And thou, dear friend of later date, 
Whose wisdom guides the subtle pen 

That oft has shaped the nation's fate, 
And dealt out destiny to men. — 

Strong in thj^ calm self-sacrifice, 

That questions not the doubtful end, 

Nor counts the marketable price 
Of service to a trusted friend. 

You two are strangers. Pray you, be 
By no mere custom kept apart: 

My love holds high festivity; 

I join your hands within my heart. 



184 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XCII. 

Where violets and daisies spring, 
And buttercups nod to and fro, 

And the young grasses' golden ring 
Clasps the pine's mossy trunk below; 

Where the wild locust's branches drop 
Their scented snow in eddying showers 

And the magnolia's leafless top 

Stars mid-day with its silver flowers; 

Where ivy climbs, and myrtle creeps. 
And the small lily's bells are hung. 

And the proud laurel darkly keeps 
Its wreaths for glories yet unsung; 

Where the broad river slowly lags 
Eound grassy points, or softly draws 

Its currents through the tangled flags. 
Chased by the breeze's fitful flaws ; 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 185 

Where the wood-robin rears her brood, 

And, at the dewy ends of day, 
Pours, by no fear of man subdued, 

The tender music of her lay; — 

There lies a grave; and thither fly 
My wildest thoughts, and there they cease ; 

And all I ask has one reply : 

That grave but whisjDers, "Peace, peace, peace!" 



IG^- 



186 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XCIII. 

I PITY him who holds his grief 
No higher than a passing sigh ; 

And casts about, to find relief, 

With nature's tear-drops in his eye. 

AVho seeks the world to drown his care, 
AYho leads the laughter of the gay. 

And lays his sacred sorrow bare. 
For any breath to blow away. 

AVho dulls his heart, and drugs his brain ; 

Is pleased, and strives in turn to please; 
That he may blunt the edge of pain, 

And live again in selfish ease. 

The grief that rent my breast has shown 
The wonder of my heart to me ; 

And, mirrored clearly in my own. 
The great heart of humanity. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 187 

Supremest wonder of the whole! 

O heart divine! whose narrow space 
Reflects before the gazing soul 

Heaven's vastness, and God's vaster grace ! 



188 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XCIY. 

In robes of woe, before me stood 

A silent figure. Towards the ground, 

His features, mufiied in bis hood, 

Were bowed with sorrow most profound. 

I questioned him ; but no reply 

Was mine, save what might be expressed 
By the long quaver of a sigh, 

Or hands that beat his troubled breast. 

I loosed his robe, with meaning kind, 
I drew the garment from its j^lace; 

His sjilendor struck my senses blind ; 
An angel shone before my face! 

His smile said more than many words: 
He tarried not ; he gazed on high ; 

His pinions flashed, like brandished swords, 
And clove amain the cloudless sky. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 189 

I followed bim with longing view; 

He did not vanish from my sight; 
His form diffused itself, and grew 

To be a portion of the light. 



190 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XCY. 

The day arose in dismal black, 

In dismal black cvcpt out the morn : 

Noon passed unheeded ; and the rack 
Grew darker, thicker, more forlorn. 

As down, behind yon wooded ledge. 
The unseen sun supinely rolled ; 

Nor did he tinge the lowest edge 
Of evening with his fiery gold. 

Deep and more deep the darkness grew. 
As the weird midnight hour drew nigh 

Until, from out the west, there flew 
A little breeze, and swept the sky. 

And all the stars together shone; 

And, here and there, a planet glowed ; 
And the moon's waned and broken zone 

Made silver of a ragged cloud. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 191 

Then praised I Ilim who dimmed the day, 
And made the evening's glory dull, 

Only to wipe the stain away, 

And make the night more beautiful. 



192 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



XCYI. 

Can time, that makes the memory 

A fading record, faint and pale, 
So gain the mastery over me 

That what is written here shall fail? 

And like a vain and faithless girl, 
Who reads the letters of her youth. 

My brow shall knit, my lip shall curl 

O'er that which once was meant for truth? 

And other love, and other grief, 

New scenes, new faces, and new deeds. 

Shall pour a balsam of relief 

In every wound that aches and bleeds? 

It may be that a calmer day — 

Grod grant it! — may be given to me; 

But where the steel has rent its way, 
There, too, the lasting scar will be. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 193 



XCVII. 

Let me not scorn my better self, 
And drag my nobler nature down 

To that degrading scale of pelf 

That measures out the red-faced clown, 

Who, in his coarse, indecent way, 

Would chaffer for a good man's fame; 

And give his stock of lies in pay, 

And shut for gold his mouth of shame. 

Bought peace, at any price, is dear ; 

Peace, with such knaves, can only stand 
When it has wrung from beaten fear 

Its title with the naked brand. 

I sound a challenge to my foes ; 

I plunge into the doubtful fight; 

To right and left I deal my blows : 

I ask no aid, no greater might 
n 11 



194 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Than that which falls from God above; 

Or from the Soul who silent stands, 
Gazing on me with patient love, 

Stretching o'er me his blessing hands. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. I95 



XCVIII. 

It seems that even rogues like these 
Can find worse rogues to be their tools,- 

Fellows who lie for paltrj^ fees, 
Shufflers of precedents and rules. 

Men who would take a cause from hell, 
And nostril-deep through foulness wade, 

Serving the Devil quite as well 
As God, if they were duly paid. 

With any trade I quarrel not: 

Corruption strikes the tree in bloom; 

And some must clear away the rot, — 
Mere scavengers by nature's doom. 

Well, let them go ! One, only one, 
At this eternal bar shall stand, 

Who fawned before me in the sun. 
And in the darkness tore my hand. 



196 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Within thy wretched memory 

I cause the spectral past to tread ; 

Each step is marked by grace to thee, 
Accorded by the kindly dead. 

Was it for thee, of all men born, 

To turn, before the grass had sprung 

Upon his grave, and blend thy scorn 
In chorus with each lying tongue? 

Is this a benefactor's due ? 

Does scorn become a thing like thee, 
Bred 'twixt the pot-house and the stew, 

To each its worst deformity? 

I marvel at thy ingrate heart. 

Thy falsehood and thy purblind sense; 

But palsied falls my rhyming art 
Before thy bare-browed impudence! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 197 



XCIX. 

O MAN of serviceable mind, 

Whose memory can only strain 

Back to the things wherein you find 
A present hope of selfish gain ! — 

How luminous, how crammed with acts, 
Are all your recollections then ! 

How gliblj' slide the lying facts 

From rattling tongue and flowing pen ! 

But where your history seems to frown. 
And shake a finger at your purse, 

How soon your eloquence is blown, 
And stricken with a silent curse! 

Strange but convenient intellect! 

That follows but the golden track ; 

I'll test its merit and defect; 

I'll question it upon the rack. 
17^ 



198 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

Do you forget the youth whose look 
Was humbled before fortune's ill, 

Who bent above a musty book, 

And drove with sighs a hireling quill? 

Do 3'ou forget who, pace by pace, 
Advanced him onward to his good. 

Against their wills who knew him base, 
Until a man with men he stood ? 

Who nursed his fortune till it grew ; 

Whose counsel added gain to gain ; 
Ever beside him, strong and true. 

With hand and heart and planning brain ? 

The man who raised you from the dirt, 
By the mere greatness of his mind, 

Failed but in this, and felt the hurt, — 
He made you not what he designed. 

He meant to make you something more 
Than nature willed, — wise, true and bold ;- 

The vileness of your soul ran o'er, 
And spoiled his purpose in the mould. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 199 

So Heaven, in primal Adam's birth, 

Miscarried. The created still 
Spurns the creator; and your earth 

Was not exempt from mortal ill. 

It is not strange that you forget; 

You are most mortal; and to ask 
For gratitude or vain regret, 

Were to assume God's future task. 

Or have you with those memories. 

So aptly lost, forgotten, too. 
The Dead who sleeps but to arise. 

And hold a reckoning with you? 



200 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



0. 



The primrose in the valley blooms, 
The snowdrop swings its silent bells, 

The willow droops its tangled plumes, 
The maple's tufted blossom swells ; 

Long sweeps of tender grass ascend 

The hill-side, towards the melting snows, 

And where the climbing patches end. 
Full-flowered, the low arbutus blows. 

A duller sense than mine should feel 
The stir in nature's warming soul ; 

It makes the shouting bluebirds reel. 
And bursts the violet's twisted scroll 

O sullen darkness of the heart ! 

O fruitless torpor of the brain ! 
When will your clouds and frosts depart?— 

When shall I come to life airain ? 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 201 



CI. 



The yearly miracle of Spring, 

Of budding tree and blooming flower, 

Which nature's feathered laureates sing- 
In my cold ear, from hour to hour. 



Spreads all its wonders round my feet; 

And every wakeful sense is fed 
On thoughts that, o'er and o'er, repeat, 

"The Eesurrection of the Dead!" 

If these half vital things have force 

To break the spell which Winter weaves, 

To wake, and clothe the wrinkled corse 
In the full life of shining leaves ; — 

Shall I sit down in vague despair, 
And marvel if the nobler soul, 

We laid in earth, shall ever dare 
To wake to life, and backward roll 



202 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

The sealing stone, and, striding out, 
Claim its eternity, and head 

Creation once again, and shout, 
" The Eesurrection of the Dead" ? 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 203 



CII. 

We poets hang upon the wheel 

Of Time's advancement; do our most 

To hide his inroads, and reveal 

The splendors which the world has lost. 

Kuins with ivy-leaves we twine, 

We flower the path of crippled Use, 

And, sometimes, hold as half divine 
What others count as old abuse. 

We see regality in kings. 

And something like a sacred power 
In sceptred hands and jewelled rings : 

We will not trust the present hour. 

So Science and her sneering tribe 
A cry of fierce derision raise; 

And ever have a taunt or gibe 

To fling against our harmless ways. 



204 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

"We but lament. AYe cannot lay 
A feather to impede their force ; 

Creation is become their prey; 

They claw and rend her soulless corse. 

We but lament. We miss God's hand 
Upon our radiant mother's brow. 

Tearful, and full of fear, we stand ; 
Tearful, and full of fear, we bow. 

Science and Avarice, arm in arm. 

Stride proudly through our abject time 

And in their footsteps, wrangling, swarm 
Their own begotten broods of crime. 

We cannot flatter. Since our seed 
First flowered within the Chian isle, 

No poet's song was raised to feed 
The famished passions of the vile. 

Hopeless but endless war we urge 
Wherever guilt uplifts its face: — 

Witness, in my right hand, this scourge, 
Red with the blood-drops of the base ! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 205 



cm. 

Glory to God! This blessed hour, 
The tender touches of the day, 

Drew me, by some mysterious power, 
A little from mj^self away. 

Great Nature lay with open breast, 
And palms outspread, beneath the sun, 

And dreamed of all the flowers, that drest 
Her olden summers, one by one. 

Her dream possessed my drowsing brain, 
Young Eden opened on my view ; 

I saw its sunshine and its rain 
Pour lightly on the sinless Two. 

They listened to the pastoral bleat; 

The lion fawned before their tread; 

With trusting eyes they set their feet 

Upon the harmless serpent's head. 
18 



206 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

One spirit moved all earthly things; 

Communion with the great and small, 
The tree that grows, the bird that sings, 

"Was theirs; they understood them all. 

How long I dreamed I cannot say: 

Upon her poles the great earth wheeled. 

And cast her mortal age away 

In what her visioned youth revealed. 

I woke to a discordant din, 

A sting that almost took my breath : 
The din was as the howl of sin, — 

The sting was as the sting of death! 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 207 



CIV. 

I, SIGHING o'er the happy past, 

Yet murmur for the time to come; 

And, like a shipwrecked voyager, cast 
On land, above the flying foam. 

Look, from my shelter, o'er the sea. 
To catch the glimmer of a sail ; 

And think my solitude to be 

Worse than their lot who, in the gale. 

Went down amidst the strangling wave ;- 
Quick exit from the endless strife 

That I reluctantly must brave, 
To keep my body's wretched life. 

I stand upon a barren shoal : 

The life that was seems passing fair: 

I stretch the vision of my soul. 
And fill the azure depths of air 



208 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

With flashing crowns, and snowy wings, 
And saints, rejoicing as they meet, 

And the seraphic choir that sings 
Forever at God's quiet feet. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 209 



CY. 



If an}" good may come to me 

From the cruel thorns o'er which I tread, — 
Soft touches of humility, 

That bow to earth my chastened head ; 

I shall not thank the evil things, 

That served as Heaven's dumb instruments; 
Nor give their many wholesome stings 

The merit due to good intents. 

Out of the vileness of their hearts, 

They hissed and stung: God's mercy stood 

Between us, and allayed the smarts, 
And from their evil wrought my good. 



18^ 



210 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 



CYI. 

I KNOW that I shall never cease, 

Dear Soul, to walk one path with thee; 

Though oil my head the years increase, 
Thy image lives in all I see. 

Thou risest with the vernal bud. 

Thy footstep shakes the summer grain. 

Thy lips with autumn's fruity blood 
Are wet, and through the wintry rain, 

And rigid ice, and driving snow. 
Thy ghost stands solemnly apart, 

With thoughtful eyes that sternly glow 
Their light ujion my inmost heart. 

I murmur not. I would not fl}^, 
Dear, dreadful vision of my brain. 

Thy awful love and ruling ej^e 

To save one twinge of selfish pain.-" 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD, 211 

It Strengthens me, thus living half 
Within the brightness of thy soul, 

To see the age's tear or laugh, 
Yet live supreme above the whole. 

No change of fickle time can be, 

By which the race is saved or wrecked. 

That I shall not desire to see 
Swept over by thy intellect; 

And all its secrets clearly shown 

Before thy wide supernal eyes. 
That I may catch some truth unknown. 

And grow, beneath thy wisdom, wise. 

I hold my lot a higher one. 

If not a happier, than to stand 
The blazing point in fortune's sun, 

The mortal idol of the land. 

For though 'tis joyless, thus unfit. 
To bide so near heaven's open gate, 

Such chance as mine had never lit 
The darkness of our earthly state, 



212 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

liadst thou not drawn me by thy love 
Half from this chrysalis of clay, 

And taught my feeble wings to move, — 
Wings pinioned still, and scant of play. 

Following thy will, I onward bear. 

Through aid above my strength or worth, 

AYith wings that cleave the heavenly air, 
With feet that drag the common earth. 



THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 213 



evil. 

With pious hands I close thy tomb, 
Whose dreadful lids have stood ajar, 

As the great angel's book of doom, 
Throughout this long and weary war. 

Sleep now in peace! Against the day 
Thy Janus'-gate no longer yawns; 

Sleep, while the earth that bears thy clay 
Speeds onward through a myriad dawns! 

Sleep, in the darkness so beloved 
By those who lie beyond our sight! 

In decent slumber, and unmoved. 

Pass thou thy long, untroubled night I 

While round thy grave the myrtle creeps. 
The pine-tree drones its dirge on high, 

The blue-eyed violet yearly weeps. 
And o'er thee bends the placid sky. 



214 THE BOOK OF THE DEAD. 

And I, and she who loves me most, 

And those who proudly bear thy name, 

Shall reverence thy sacred ghost, 

And stand as champions for thy fame. 

The curs that bayed at thee are dumb, 
The liars strangled with their lies ; 

A thousand honest voices hum 
Thy praise, and not a foe replies. 

No sound shall come to vex thy ear; 

Thy small domain of flowery sod 
Is hallowed. Sleep, without a fear. 

And wake but at the voice of God I 



THE END. 












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